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ARCADIAN    DAYS 


AMERICAN    LANDSCAPES 


IN 


NATURE   AND   ART 


BY 


W.   H.   DOWNES  >'  '  ,">  } 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  A.    H.    BICKNELL 


BOSTON 
ESTES    &    LAURIAT 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1891, 
BY  ESTES  &  LAURIAT. 


GIFT  0? 


PRESSWORK  BY  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON, 
UNIVERSITY  PRESS. 


TO 


THE    GROUP" 


OF    KINDRED    SPIRITS    WHO    USED   TO    MEET    IN    BICKNELL  S 

STUDIO    TO   TALK   ABOUT   ART,   IN    AN    ATMOSPHERE 

OF    GOOD    FELLOWSHIP   AND   TOBACCO    SMOKE. 


M9443 


INTRODUCTION. 


IN  these  sketches,  which  were  written  out  of 
doors,  I  have  first  endeavored  to  record  in 
appropriate  words  the  impressions  caused  by 
the  actual  landscapes  spread  out  before  my 
eyes,  somewhat  as  the  landscape  painter  would 
record  his  impressions  in  his  language.  Then 
I  have  ventured  to  recall  the  works  of  certain 
painters  whose  canvases  have  been  brought  to 
mind  by  a  sight  of  Nature.  It  may  be  consid 
ered  rash  to  bring  together  in  this  way  famous 
names  and  some  which  are  almost  unknown  to 
the  great  world ;  but  an  art  critic  should  be 
ready  to  incur  such  a  risk,  if  he  has  any  convic 
tions,  and  surely  he  may  never  feel  safer  than 
when  judging  men's  works  by  the  standard  of 
Nature. 

It  would  not  be  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  determine  which  method  of  suggesting  Nature 


INTRODUCTION. 

is  the  more  difficult,  the  painter's  or  the  writer's. 
At  best,  no  one  can  give  more  than  a  hint. 
Cold  types  and  rebellious  pigments  alike  are 
inadequate  means  of  expression. 

The  simplest  rustic  subjects  have  seemed  the 
best,  because  they  are  the  most  familiar.  It  is 
hoped  that  some  of  these  sketches  may  appeal 
by  their  truthfulness  to  the  reader's  pleasant 
memories.  But  the  whole  value  of  the  work,  if 
it  has  any  value,  lies  in  its  tendency,  in  what  it 
merely  hints  at,  —  the  great  desirability,  for  in 
stance,  of  using  one's  own  eyes  and  of  cultivat 
ing  one's  powers  of  observation ;  for  how  much 
of  pleasure  and  profit  this  might  add  to  the  lives 
of  most  people,  no  matter  in  what  particular 
sphere  of  action  they  may  be  placed! 

We  see  what  we  look  for.  It  is  best  to  be 
on  the  watch  for  beauty,  and  to  let  none  of  it 
escape  our  vigilance. 

W.  H.  D. 


SUTHERLAND  ROAD, 

BOSTON,  April,  1891. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  DAY  IN  JUNE 17 

ON  THE  RIVER 30 

THE  EVERLASTING  HILLS 43 

BY  THE  SHORE 54 

THE  ABANDONED  FARMHOUSE    .......  67 

IN  FIELD  AND  MEADOW 76 

THE  THUNDER  STORM 89 

SUNSET  EFFECTS 102 

IN  THE  WOODS 115 

MOODS  OF  THE  SEA 129 

NOCTURNE 145 

THE  BEAUTY  OF  COMMON  THINGS 159 

THE  FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART     .  170 


A  DAY  IN  JUNE 


The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a  passion  ;   the  tall  rock, 
The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood, 
Their  colors  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite:    a  feeling  and  a  love, 
That  had   no  need  of  a  remoter  charm, 
By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye. 

—  WORDSWORTH. 


A    DAY    IN   JUNE. 

IT  has  stormed  at  intervals  during  six  days 
and  nights.  The  wind  has  been  blowing 
more  or  less  sourly  from  the  east.  Heavy 
rains  have  fallen ;  thick  fogs  hung  over  the 
water ;  the  surf  roared  loudly  in  the  night,  and 
a  gale,  swept  in  from  the  Atlantic,  howled  about 
the  house  most  dismally  and  monotonously  for 
twenty-four  hours.  The  whole  world  seemed 

17 


\    ;  :  t8 ;  il    il  ARCADIAN  DAYS. 


dark  ancl ,  chilly ;  the  summer's  face  was  hid; 
and:  ^-very-one  longed  for  the  light  and  warmth 
of  the  sun. 

This  morning,  lo  !  a  dazzling,  sparkling,  flash 
ing,  glittering  stream  of  welcome  sunlight  flooded 
the  glad  earth  and  the  laughing  ocean ;  the  birds 
sang  with  an  unwonted  exuberance  on  all  sides ; 
and  the  scent  of  sweetness  and  the  softness  of 
the  airs  that  blew  over  the  meadows  proclaimed 
unmistakably  that  the  wind  was  in  the  west. 
Thus  began  this  day  of  rare  beauty.  The  rain 
has  refreshed  the  grass  and  foliage,  which  have 
taken  on  richer  tints  of  green  ;  the  face  of  the 
landscape  appears  washed  clean ;  in  all  the  roads 
the  dust  has  been  laid ;  and  there  is  a  wonderful 
clarity  in  the  atmosphere,  which  to  breathe  is  a 
joy. 

Great  masses  of  white  clouds  move  across  the 
sky.  At  one  moment  the  sun  is  obscured,  the 
next  it  bursts  forth  again  brighter  than  before. 
Between  the  ragged  lines  of  the  flying  vapors 
the  blue  upper  sky  is  bluer  than  men  dare  paint 
it.  One  exquisite  effect  of  light  and  shade 
after  another  comes  and  goes  from  moment 


A   DAY   IN  JUNE. 


to  moment.     The  gentle  breeze  rustles   softly 

through  the   grove;   the   tall   trees    whisper   a 

liquid  lullaby,  and  swing  their  topmost  branches 

in    a    capricious    rhythm,    as 

full  of  natural  grace  as  the 

rise    and    fall    of    the    sea's 

waves  or  the  undulations  of 

a  field  of  rye.     Down  in  the 

swamp  the  flenrs  de  Us  are 

royally   adorning   the   bright 

day,    and   beneath    the    rank 

tufts    of    verdure    the    frogs 

twang  out  their  'cello   solos 

of  batrachian  satisfaction. 

How  handsome  the  moist 
brown  earth  is  in  a  ploughed 
field !  This  one  has  a  color 
richer  than  chocolate  in  some  lights, 
and  the  slope  is  fine.  On  one  edge  of  the  field 
is  a  row  of  low  quince  trees  still  in  blossom,  and 
at  the  base  of  the  rickety  rail  fence  grow  ferns 
and  wild  geraniums  among  the  tall  grasses  and 
weeds.  An  unpainted  barn,  of  proportions  more 
generous  than  those  of  the  owner's  house,  shows 


20 


ARCADIAN   DAYS. 


its  weather-stained  walls 
and  roof  above  the  hill, 
and  higher  still  rise  the 
noble  aged  forms  of  two 
tall  cottonwood  trees  whose 
leaves  are  full  of  murmur 
ous  confidences.  Here  is 
the  familiar  spot  where  the 
road  to  the  shore  makes  a 
pretty  bend,  and,  descend 
ing  a  little  hill,  forks,  and 
is  lost  to  view.  A  group  of 
scraggy  apple-trees  stands, 
or  rather  crouches,  along 
side  the  stone-wall  at  the 
bend,  and  casts  pleasant  shades 
upon  the  inviting  grassy  bank  beneath. 
As  their  limbs  overhang  the  highway,  it  may  be 
presumed  that  they  furnish  more  fruit  to  the 
vagrant,  and  the  perpetually  hungry  small  boy, 
than  to  their  owner.  In  good  apple  years,  how 
ever,  the  farmers  are  glad  to  have  all  comers 
help  themselves ;  for  apples  are  then  almost  as 
cheap  as  water  in  many  parts  of  New  England. 


A  DAY   IN  JUNE. 


Down  where  the  big  willow  trees  droop  over 
the  little  pond,  the  cows  have  come  to  take  their 
morning  cocktails.  Their  rich  red  hides  make 
superb  pictures,  wherever  they  go,  against  the 


24  ARCADIAN  DAYS. 

green  background.  If  cows  are  more  contented 
at  any  one  given  time  than  at  another,  this  must 
be  a  season  of  especial  comfort  for  them,  before 
the  voracious  flies  and  the  great  heats  of  mid 
summer  have  come  to  torment  their  patient 
souls.  I  never  see  a  group  of  these  decorative 
philosophers  under  a  tree  without  thinking  of 
Johnny  Johnston,  and  it  is  the  same  with  all 
who  are  familiar  with  his  masterly  cattle  pic 
tures.  Nothing  could  testify  more  eloquently 
to  the  truth  of  his  works  than  this  involuntary 
reference  to  them  in  the  very  presence  of 
Nature. 

Near  midday,  without  warning,  arrives  a  sud 
den  shower,  which  passes  quickly.  Now  the 
sky  assumes  new  shapes  of  wonder  in  the  south, 
hangs  out  fresh  banners  of  glorious  hues.  Stately 
cumuli  sail  eastward,  luminous  like  sun-touched 
snowbanks  as  to  their  tops,  purple  and  blue 
and  lilac  beneath,  with  spaces  of  unspeakably 
delicate  gray.  Reaches  of  tender  blue  appear 
between  the  shining  peaks  of  this  aerial  Ober- 
land ;  the  cloud-shadows  chase  one  another  across 
the  fields  and  across  the  water ;  the  distant 


A   DAY   IN  JUNE.  25 

shower  slants  its  azure  veil  athwart  the  hills, 
while  on  either  side  the  lovely  amber  sunlight 
falls  on  the  brilliant  damp  green  fields,  the 
sombre  mass  of  the  forest,  the  white  sand  of 
the  beach,  and  the  far-off  red  lighthouse  at  the 
end  of  the  breakwater.  What  a  pageant,  what 
a  treat  for  the  eyes  !  Everything  shines.  The 
air  is  full  of  life.  Turn  which  way  you  will, 
the  pictures  are  full  of  beauty.  This  is  June,  the 
youngest  of  the  sisterhood  of  summer  months, 
—  capricious,  changeful,  and  adorable. 

Among  all  the  landscape  artists  known  to 
fame,  there  is  none  capable  of  translating  all 
the  freshness,  the  sweetness,  the  intoxication  of 
such  a  day.  Corot  got  up  early  in  the  morn 
ing  and  was  at  work  before  the  night  fog  had 
cleared  away,  consequently  he  saw  everything 
through  gray  spectacles  ;  moreover,  he  never 
saw  New  England  at  all,  and  had  he  seen  her 
in  such  a  vivid,  gay,  chromatic  aspect  as  she 
wears  to-day,  I  suspect  he  would  have  thought 
her  loud.  Constable  was  one  of  the  few  men 
who  could  paint  changeable  weather,  and  came 
very  close  to  the  truth  of  England's  fickle  cli- 


26  ARCADIAN   DAYS. 

mate ;  were  he  living  Yankee  instead  of  dead 
Briton,  I  would  sooner  commission  him  to  paint 
an  impression  of  the  celestial  carnival  going  on 
to-day  than  Claude  Lorrain  or  Turner.  Not 
even  Ruysdael,  giant  as  he  was,  whose  name  I 
never  hear  without  mentally  taking  off  my  hat, 
not  even  the  great  Ruysdael  could  cope  with 
Nature  in  such  a  frolicsome  mood.  We  might 
recall  a  long  list  of  names,  and  after  all  shake 
our  heads  at  the  end  of  it.  Hobbema,  Pous- 
sin,  Gainsborough,  Rousseau,  Dupre,  Daubigny, 
Courbet,  Hunt,  Inness,  marshal  them  all  in 
imposing  array,  and  say  whether  they  are  great 
enough  to  paint  the  song  of  a  bird,  the  scent 
of  a  hawthorn  blossom,  the  breezy  call  of 
incense-breathing  morn.  It  is  surely  no  depre 
ciation  of  their  well-earned  fame  to  pronounce 
them  unequal  to  the  task.  All  of  these  land- 
scapists  are  men  of  great  achievements  in  their 
respective  fields,  yet  I  dare  say  they  all  have 
known  at  times  what  it  is  to  wrestle  mightily 
with  Nature  and  to  be  thrown.  For  my  part, 
I  am  devoutly  thankful  to  each  and  all  of  them 
for  the  few  shreds  and  fragments  they  have 


A   DAY  IN  JUNE.  2/ 

been  able  to  preserve  for  us  of  the  boundless, 
indescribable,  and  transcendent  beauties  of  the 
rural  world.  It  is  enough  glory  for  the  greatest 
of  them  that  they  could  merely  suggest  a  gleam 
of  sunlight,  or  the  flutter  of  a  leafy  bough,  or 
the  slow,  lifting  movement  of  a  billow  on  the 
sea.  If  you  were  to  ask  one  of  these  painters 
what  he  had  accomplished  in  his  lifetime  of 
toil  and  study  and  observation,  he  would  prob 
ably  say  that  he  had  been  enabled  to  give  a 
few  slight  hints  as  to  the  true  aspect  of  Nature. 
That  is  enough,  and  the  verdict  must  be  :  Well 
done. 

The  golden  hours  of  the  afternoon  go  by  with 
magic  rapidity,  and  the  evening's  approach  is 
hardly  perceived.  The  going-down  of  the  sun 
is  a  quiet  affair,  with  no  flame  of  color ;  in  the 
west  is  a  modest,  ruddy  token  of  good  night, 
and  interlacing  bars  of  brass  tremble  in  the 
level  backgrounds  of  the  sea  for  a  while,  till 
presently  the  moon  peers  from  beyond  the  rim 
of  the  southeast,  and  disputes  with  vagrant 
clouds  the  rule  of  the  night.  Over  the  vast 
bosom  of  the  waters  hangs  a  mysterious  half- 


28  ARCADIAN   DAYS. 

light,  in  which  the  bats  wheel  their  devious 
ways,  as  busily,  as  blindly,  and  as  aimlessly, 
perchance,  as  we  mortals  pursue  our  progress 
through  the  mystery  of  our  life.  There  is 
something  so  unreal  in  the  quality  of  moon 
shine  that  it  makes  our  hold  upon  the  material 
facts  of  the  world  seem  feebler  than  by  day. 
Nevertheless,  it  is  always  pleasant  to  see  the 
moon  prevail  in  its  contest  with  the  clouds.  So 
now  it  comes  forth  full  and  clear,  sending  its 
silver  track  across  the  waves,  gleaming  pale 
upon  the  sail  of  yonder  ghostly  sloop,  caressing 
the  lawns  and  grassy  slopes,  making  deeper  the 
shadows  everywhere.  "Even  the  little  valleys 
joy  to  glisten  in  her  sight." 

I  know  three  pictures  of  moonlight  in  which 
the  naked  truth  seems  to  have  been  caught  on 
the  wing.  Alexander  Harrison's  "Crepuscule" 
and  D.  Jerome  Elwell's  "  Moonrise,  Holland," 
are  honors  to  American  art.  Daubigny  painted 
a  fine  moonrise,  which  was  among  the  pictures 
sold  by  M.  Achille  Oudinot  in  Boston  in  1886; 
this  was  one  of  those  marvels  of  rapid  work  in 
which  Daubigny  showed  himself  the  peer  of  the 


A   DAY   IN   JUNE. 


29 


greatest  landscapists  that  ever  lived,  and  seemed 
to  reveal,  as  by  an  intuition,  the  inmost  secrets 
of  the  country's  heart. 


ON    THE    RIVER. 

THE    sun    has   got    behind  the  long,   wood- 
covered   range   of   hills    that    borders    the 
western  bank  of  the  river,  so  that  nearly  half 
the  stream  flows  in  an  opulent   shadow,  where 
my  boat  drifts  with  a  delicious  leisure.     From 
north  to  south  the  river  makes  a  wide  and  grace 
ful  bend,  sweeping  in  majestic  silence  seaward. 
Of  the  eastern  shore  I  will  say  nothing  except 
that  there  is  a  railroad  there.     The  trees  and 
30 


ON   THE    RIVER.  31 

grass  have  done  their  best  to  hide  the  unseemly 
gashes  cut  by  shovel  and  pick  in  the  virgin 
slopes.  There  are  places  where  the  woods 
stoop  over  to  see  themselves  reflected  in  dis 
torted  shapes  in  the  looking-glass  that  Mother 

Eve  used. 

"  Inverted  in  the  tide 
Stand  the  gray  rocks,  and  trembling  shadows  throw, 

And  the  fair  trees  look  over,  side  by  side, 
And  see  themselves  below." 

At  one  point  a  little  brook,  hardly  stout 
enough  to  babble,  slides  down  over  mossy 
ledges  from  a  neighboring  spring,  and  loses  it 
self  in  the  bigger  waters.  I  am  downright  sorry 
that  truth  obliges  me  to  refrain  from  calling 
it  a  babbling  brook,  and  that  a  conscientious 
regard  for  literal  fact  compels  the  acknowledg 
ment  that  it  is  so  insignificant  as  not  even  to 
gurgle  or  murmur  or  purl.  Nevertheless  'tis  a 
pretty  brooklet,  and  may  not  always  be  so 
dumb.  There  is  mention  in  the  first  act  of 
"  Les  Huguenots"  of  a  certain  ruisseau  which 
munnures  a  peine.  Near  by  is  a  steep,  rocky 
promontory  from  which  the  boys  dive.  The 


32  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

channel  makes  close  by  the  shore,  and  the  water 
is  more  than  twenty  feet  deep  here.  Its  sur 
face  is  black  and  smooth,  and  it  looks  treach 
erous.  A  boy  was  drowned  here  once,  but  that 
does  not  prevent  the  thoughtless  youngsters  of 
to-day  from  enjoying  their  swimming  baths  in 
the  same  sombre  spot.  It  is  a  fine,  exhilarating 
sight  to  watch  their  supple  young  bodies  as 
they  plunge  from  the  top  of  the  rock,  cleave  the 
dark  water,  and  shoot  downward  till  they  are 
lost  to  view  in  the  depths,  only  to  emerge, 
buoyant  as  corks  and  noisy  with  animal  spirits, 
grasping  a  handful  of  mud  or  sand  to  prove 
that  they  have  been  to  the  bottom.  Hunt's 
painting  of  "The  Bathers"  is  a  very  vivid  reali 
zation  of  such  a  scene,  where  the  rich  darkness 
of  a  well-shaded  pool  sets  off  the  handsome 
lustre  of  the  wet  flesh  of  a  couple  of  athletic 
youths.  The  associations  connected  with  the 
place  where  one  took  the  first  swimming  les 
sons  are  likely  to  be  agreeable.  How  these 
rocks  and  hills  were  wont  to  echo  our  splash- 
ings  and  our  shouts  of  boyish  glee  in  the  old 
days !  Now  there  is  a  new  set  of  boys,  with  a 


ON   THE    RIVER. 


33 


new  assortment  of  natatorial  tricks,  a  fresh 
vocabulary  of  slang,  strange  faces.  Stay,  there 
is  one  sturdy  fellow  who  has  the  features  and 
the  gait  of  Ned  T.,  who  was  killed  at  Spottsyl- 
vania.  Can  it  be  his  —  grandson?  It  seems  not 
longer  ago  than  yesterday  when  Ned  and  I  were 
sporting  together  in  this  familiar  locality  :  — 


"  Cease  ;  thou  know'st, 
He  dies  to  me  again,  when  talk'd  of." 

Now  let  the  boat  go  with  the  current  down 
to  where  the  stream  runs  between  broad  mead 
ows  in  which  elms  grow,  the  hills  recede,  and 
gray  farmhouses  and  barns  dot  the  broad  peace 
ful  intervale.  Between  low  shores  like  these, 
the  river  meanders  more  lazily,  fringed  with 


34  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

rushes,  flags,  and  rank-smelling  weeds,  among 
which  water-fowl  hide.  Beyond  this  wide  and 
placid  reach  the  bed  of  the  stream  narrows, 
and  a  gradual  acceleration  in  the  current's 
movement  marks  the  approach  to  a  tortuous, 
rough  defile,  hemmed  in  by  rocky  heights. 
Deep  and  swift  the  water  glides  between  the 
stern  granite  gates  of  the  gorge,  washing  the 
base  of  the  cliff  called  Lover's  Leap  which  rises 
abruptly  on  the  west  bank.  The  vague  legend, 
of  pretended  Indian  origin,  which  gives  this  ro 
mantic  name  to  the  steep,  is  slimly  "  founded 
on  fact,"  it  is  to  be  suspected ;  and  in  this 
respect  it  is  like  many  similar  tales  of  the 
aborigines.  The  wild  character  of  the  scene  is 
suggestive  of  Fenimore  Cooper's  stories,  how 
ever,  and  this  would  be  a  fitting  place  to  read 
of  the  adventures  of  the  Pathfinder.  From  a 
pictorial  point  of  view,  the  roughness  of  the 
country,  the  density  of  the  primitive  woods  that 
crown  the  rocks,  and  the  strength  of  the  torrent 
that  rushes  and  tumbles  over  its  harsh  bed 
below,  recall  the  rude  and  sturdy  landscapes  of 
Gustave  Courbet  among  the  Vosges  mountains. 


ON   THE    RIVER. 


35 


There  is  more  than  one  cove  where  the  sunlight 
never  comes,  and  black  pools,  haunted  by  in 


numerable  fish,  sleep  in  perpetual  shadow.  In 
the  seams  and  crannies  of  the  precipice,  mosses, 
fern,  and  stunted  cedars  find  a  precarious  foot- 


36  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

hold.  It  would  hardly  surprise  one  to  see 
golden-haired  Lorelei  emerge  from  the  twilight 
depths  of  the  stream  to  lure  the  traveller  to 
amorous  death  in  the  dark  swirl  of  the  rapids. 
.  Another  corner  is  turned,  and  the  flood  lies 
shining  once  more  in  full  sunlight,  for  so  sud 
denly  does  the  scene  change  :  it  is  with  the 
river  as  with  mortals  —  it  is  ever  the  same, 
yet  none  of  its  days  or  hours  are  alike. 

What  means  this  slow  advance,  this  expanding 
of  the  shores,  and  the  dull  roar  that  comes  to 
our  ears  from  below  ?  The  round-topped  hills 
encircle  no  less  than  a  lake ;  trees  stand  a 
fathom  deep  under  water ;  and  the  basin  seems 
fuller  than  nature  meant  it  to  be.  Down  the 
stream  there  is  an  abrupt  and  untimely  end  to 
all  this  placidity,  where  a  long  curved  dam  lets 
fall  the  unsuspecting  sheet  of  water  and  breaks 
its  smooth  face  into  a  foamy  chaos,  noisy,  law 
less,  turbulent,  —  a  vulgar  Niagara.  The  dull 
roar  has  grown  into  a  continuous  and  mighty 
thunder.  From  the  apron  of  the  dam  the  dis 
concerted  river  flees  wildly  in  a  thousand  amber 
eddies,  and  in  shame  and  confusion  slips  between 


ON  THE    RIVER. 


37 


foal  banks  lined  with  clattering  mills  whose  sub 
terranean  race-ways  discharge  their  prostituted, 
soiled,  and  enslaved  contents  back  to  the  indig 
nant  bosom  of  the  mother-stream.  Thus  is  the 
river  subjugated  by  man's  arts  and  turned  to 
the  uses  of  business  :  its  purity  sullied,  its  peace 
destroyed,  its  beauty  disregarded,  its  power  alone 
respected.  But  it  has  within  itself  that  blessed 
faculty  of  letting  bygones  be  bygones,  of  filter 
ing  away  and  leaving  behind  it  all  noisome  sedi 
ments,  —  that  forgetfulness  of  evil  characteristic 
of  healthy  temperaments.  Every  surrounding 
soon  becomes  rustic  and  cleanly  again.  Limpid 
brooks  bring  their  icy  tribute ;  the  sun  sends 
down  its  tenderest  shafts  of  warmth  to  cheer 
the  ill-used  waters;  soft  westerly  breezes  stir 
the  grave  face  of  the  saddened  stream  to  a  reluc 
tant  smile.  Flowing  so  through  many  miles  of 
wood  and  farm  and  hill,  under  consoling  skies, 
the  river  comes  at  last  to  the  lovely  village  of 
Wapawoag,  where  no  wonder  it  is  content  to  lin 
ger  long.  A  perpetual  Sabbath  reigns  in  Wapa 
woag,  and  the  river  is  its  prophet.  No  mills,  no 
dams,  no  noise,  no  dirt,  no  business  here.  At 


38  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

intervals  the  plainest  of  wooden  bridges  spans 
the  river,  and  there  is  usually  a  motionless,  rapt, 
credulous  fisherman  fishing  from  each  bridge, 
from  which  he  dangles  his  ill-shod  feet.  In 
round-shouldered  expectancy  he  hangs  over  the 
particular  pool  presumed  to  contain  countless 
perch,  and  yet  who  has  ever  seen  him  catch 
anything  ? 

On  one  side  of  the  river  a  wide,  elm-shaded 
road  runs  north  and  south,  lined  with  houses 
built  in  the  eighteenth  century,  several  of  which 
are  the  homes  of  retired  sea-captains.  The  long, 
sloping  roof,  the  heavy  timbers,  the  absence  of 
verandas,  the  unhewn  stone  which  serves  as  the 
lower  step  to  the  narrow  porch,  the  grotesque, 
old  knocker,  and  the  bit  of  tin  which  makes 
rusty  proclamation  that  the  dwelling  is  insured, 
—  all  this  announces  plainly  that  we  are  in  the 
presence  of  an  old  settler.  The  unkempt  gar 
den,  all  overgrown  with  vagabond  vines,  rasp 
berry  bushes,  and  shaggy  weeds,  extends  back 
of  such  a  venerable  mansion  to  the  edge  of  the 
river,  where  a  century-old  willow  bends  over 
the  water,  with  a  crazy  skiff  moored  to  a  ring 


ON   THE    RIVER.  41 

in  its  scarred  trunk.  Just  above  this  neglected 
garden,  which  the  bees  have  all  to  themselves 
through  long  days  together,  stands  the  ancient 
store,  which  stood  in  the  same  spot  in  the  year 
1776,  and  doubtless  held  the  same  variegated 
stock  of  goods,  including  the  best  of  New 
England  rum,  the  same  that  the  sea-captains 
used  to  drink  as  they  sat  in  the  back  room 
stormy  nights  and  spun  yarns  of  their  prodig 
ious  exploits  in  the  war  of  1812,  when  Wapa- 
woag  was  a  thriving  seaport  and  fitted  out 
privateers  to  prey  upon  the  commerce  of  Eng 
land.  There  is  a  picturesque,  irregular  foot 
bridge  near  the  store,  connecting  that  centre 
of  trade  and  local  news  with  the  handsome 
"place"  of  a  rich  Bostonian  who  passes  the 
six  months  from  April  till  October  on  the  west 
shore  of  the  river,  in  a  red  villa  surrounded 
by  wide  verandas,  from  which  a  smooth-shaven 
lawn  slopes  very  gradually  down  to  the  water. 
Pretty  maidens  and  athletic  manly  youths  play 
tennis  here,  in  becoming  white  flannel  costumes, 
and  wake  the  echoes  with  their  cries  and  laugh 
ter.  On  moonlight  evenings  the  river  overhears 


42  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

some  foolish  talk  in  the  coquettish  Whitehall 
boat,  but  it  never  betrays  these  summer  secrets 
confided  to  it,  maintaining  to  the  end  its  sage 
policy  of  forgetfulness.  I  would  that  my  poor 
pen  were  capable  of  describing  in  adequate 
terms  the  hundred  beautiful  pictures  made  by 
the  river  in  its  progress  through  the  sweet  old 
town,  —  that  last  ttape  in  its  march  to  the  sea. 
All  its  memories  at  last  are  drowned  in  the 
ocean,  its  identity  is  lost,  it  becomes  a  mere 
drop  in  the  world's  bucket,  a,  nameless  part  of 
the  infinite  deep. 


THE    EVERLASTING   HILLS. 

ALL  generous  natures  love  the  hills.  The 
love  of  liberty  flourishes  in  high  places. 
Tyrants  could  never  enslave  the  mountaineers. 
Switzerland  must  ever  be  a  republic.  The 
Scotch  highlanders  are  invincible  friends  of 
freedom.  In  our  own  country  slavery  and 

43 


44  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

rebellion  could  not  get  a  foothold  in  the  loyal 
mountains  of  West  Virginia  and  East  Ten 
nessee.  It  is  useless  to  multiply  instances, 
because  history  is  so  full  of  eloquent  illustrations 
that  volumes  would  be  needed  to  set  forth  the 
virtue  and  liberality  of  the  dwellers  on  the 
heights.  It  is  not  hard  to  appreciate  and  pity 
the  proverbial  homesickness  of  the  wandering 
Swiss ;  and  who,  except  a  railroad  contractor, 
does  not  abhor  a  flat  country  ?  Thank  Heaven 
that  New  England  is  no  dreary,  endless  prairie, 
no  monotonous  plain.  Surely  no  one  can  accuse 
our  domain  of  a  want  of  diversity.  From  the 
St.  Lawrence  to  Long  Island  Sound  it  is  an 
almost  uninterrupted  succession  of  rugged  hills, 
with  peaceful  valleys  lying  between.  All  our 
hills  have  certain  characteristics  in  common,  and 
the  giants  of  the  Presidential  range  are  but 
exaggerated  types  of  their  kind.  Their  pre 
eminence,  however,  is  undisputed  and  indispu 
table.  There  is  nothing  finer  in  all  the  poetry 
relating  to  mountains  than  that  proud  soliloquy 
which  Emerson  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Mount 
Monadnock,  beginning :  — 


THE   EVERLASTING   HILLS. 


45 


"Every  morn  I  lift  my  head, 
Gaze  on  New  England  underspread.   ..." 


The  conscious 
ness  of  might,  the 
superb  calm  of  ac 
knowledged  power 
and  dominion,  the 
lofty  disdain  of  a 
Titan  for  the  pig 
mies  that  fret  and 
fume  at  his  feet,  all 
this  and  more  is  ex 
pressed  in  the  grim, 
quaint  speech  of  the 
mountain.  Every 
thing  is  relative,  so 
that  Mount  Wash 
ington,  who  would 
be  a  very  petty 
prince  indeed  among 
the  Alps,  is  every 
inch  a  king  in  New 
Hampshire.  I  pity 
all  those  persons 


46  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

who  do  not  know  the  White  Mountain  re 
gion.  It  is  not  the  height  in  feet  and  inches 
of  these  overgrown  hills,  nor  their  supply  of 
midsummer  snow,  which  is  apt  to  run  short 
in  a  hot  August ;  it  is  the  nameless  charm  of 
a  locality  unlike  any  other,  at  once  wild  and 
suave,  full  of  piquant  contrasts,  affording  oppor 
tunities  for  ambitious  alpestrians  to  break  their 
necks ;  for  mediocre  landscape-painters  to  betray 
their  incompetency ;  for  meditative  people  to 
"loaf,  and  invite  their  souls  "  ;  for  amateur  pedes 
trians  to  discover  how  long  a  mile  is  ;  and  for 
all  comers  to  breathe  an  air  as  exhilarating  as 
champagne  and  a  vast  deal  purer. 

It  is  a  well-known  fact  that  the  highest 
mountains  do  not  command  the  most  pleasing 
prospects,  nor  are  they  always  imposing  in 
proportion  to  their  size.  A  tumble  from  the 
cliff  that  frowns  over  Tuckerman's  Ravine  would 
doubtless  be  just  as  fatal  as  a  fall  from  the 
top  of  the  Matterhorn.  What  is  sublimity  ? 
I  have  been  more  frightened  by  a  thunder 
storm  on  the  summit  of  Mount  Clinton  than  I 
was  on  the  precarious  peak  of  the  Wetterhorn  ; 


THE   EVERLASTING   HILLS.  49 

and  there  is  no  reason  for  doubting  that  the  dis 
charge  of  a  pailful  of  suds  on  to  an  ant-hill  is  as 
grave  an  event  for  the  ants  as  the  flood  was  to 
Noah  and  his  contemporaries. 

The  mountains  excite  the  imagination  more 
deeply  than  any  other  natural  objects  ;  not  be 
cause  of  their  dimensions  and  forms  so  much 
as  because  there  is  always  a  farther  side  to 
them  which  we  do  not  see.  The  mind  is 
affected  by  the  unknown,  and  eagerly  believes 
it  to  be  more  wonderful,  more  pleasant,  than 
the  known.  After  you  have  ascended  to  the 
top  of  a  hill,  it  has  no  more  secrets  for  you, 
and  you  are  desilhisione.  When  clouds  hide  the 
upper  part  of  a  mountain,  it  seems  higher  than 
when  all  the  peak  is  visible.  I  remember  see 
ing,  in  the  valley  which  leads  up  to  the  village 
of  Zermatt,  the  lower  portion  of  a  great  glacier 
nearly  overhead  which  had  the  appearance  of 
hanging  from  the  very  sky,  —  a  spectacle  so 
startling  and  awful  that  in  the  few  minutes  it 
was  visible  it  became  more  vividly  impressed 
upon  my  memory  than  the  aspect  of  Monte 
Rosa  itself  in  all  its  majesty.  Probably  one  of 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


the  reasons  that 
almost  all  pic 
tures  of  moun 
tains  are  so  un 
satisfactory  is 
the  want  of  this 
potent  element 
of  mystery.  It 
is  not  the  only 
reason,  and  yet 
it  is  not  easy  to 
explain  in  so 
many  words 
why  objects, 
grand  in  them 
selves,  should 
not  be  success 
fully  painted, 
provided  always 
that  the  artist 
attempting  the 

task  be  fitly  inspired.  Our  hills  have  tempted 
many  capable  pencils,  but  the  results  of  all  en 
deavors  have  not  added  to  the  fame  of  American 


THE   EVERLASTING   HILLS.  51 

art,  nor  have  they  exalted  the  glory  of  the  hills. 
Church  travelled  to  the  Andes,  Bierstadt  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains,  as  if  the  humblest  hummock 
of  our  land  would  not  have  been  enough  to  give 
them  pause.  The  best  impression  of  a  moun 
tainous  district  that  I  have  seen  was  a  large  study 
by  Daubigny,  which  represented  the  sterile  slope 
of  a  huge  eminence  in  the  Pyrenees.  It  was 
a  suggestion.  Without  trying  to  be  a  picture, 
it  gave  the  massive  structure  of  the  subject. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  least  scenic  in  it  ;  it 
was  not  even  agreeable  ;  but  to  one  who  knows 
the  austere  solitude,  the  solemn  grandeur  of 
such  high  places,  it  was  striking  for  its  simple 
and  unalloyed  truthfulness.  It  conveyed  a  sense 
of  isolation  which  was  almost  oppressive. 

The  once  inaccessible  tops  of  the  loftiest 
peaks  among  the  Alps  were  peopled,  in  the 
fancy  of  the  peasants,  with  imps  and  gnomes, 
who  rolled  down  stones  and  started  frightful 
avalanches  to  scare  away  climbers  who  at 
tempted  to  scale  those  accursed  heights.  Rip 
Van  Winkle  found  Hudson's  phantom  crew 
among  the  granite  fastnesses  of  the  Catskills, 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


where  they  diverted 
themselves  with  hob 
goblin  ten-pins,  making 
ghostly  thunder.  Every 
considerable  mountain- 
peak,  from  Teneriffe  to 
Fujiyama,  has  its  le 
gend,  be  it  more  or  less 
romantic.  One  is  never 
alone  on  a  hill-top. 

It  is  odd  how  the  lay 
of  the  land  causes  a 
small  elevation  to  command  a  handsome  view. 
Nothing  is  so  genial  and  pretty  to  look  down 
on  as  a  wide  valley  watered  by  a  sinuous  creek 
and  cut  up  into  a  patchwork  of  cultivated  fields, 


THE   EVERLASTING   HILLS.  53 

with  here  and  there  a  farm-house  surrounded 
by  its  cluster  of  barns  and  outbuildings,  and 
shaded  by  its  great  trees.  A  crop  of  buckwheat 
or  a  freshly  ploughed  field  gives  a  pleasant  ac 
cent  of  variety  among  the  rich  greens  of  past 
ures  and  of  woods.  The  white  steeple  of  the 
meeting-house  is  seldom  lacking  in  the  view. 
I  have  heard  an  artist  say  that  white  buildings 
did  not  look  well  in  a  landscape,  but  I  must 
disagree  with  him  on  that  point.  There  was 
a  time  when  all  country  houses  in  New  England 
were  painted  white  with  green  blinds  —  that  is, 
all  those  that  were  painted  at  all.  The  custom 
was  so  nearly  universal  that,  when  the  reaction 
came,  it  was  too  violent ;  and  to-day,  white  is 
the  least  popular  of  paints  for  outside  work ; 
but  it  is  not  a  risky  prophecy  to  say  that  the 
day  will  come  when  white  will  not  be  so  scorned. 
There  are  already  indications  that  the  absolute 
rule  of  red  and  yellow  is  becoming  wearisome. 
The  old-fashioned,  rambling,  manorial  farm 
house,  as  white  as  paint  can  make  it,  never 
looks  out  of  place  either  embowered  in  green 
foliage,  or  lifting  its  dazzling  fagade  to  meet 
the  deep  blue  of  the  morning  sky. 


BY   THE   SHORE. 

THE  sound  of  the  surf  upon  the  rocks  at 
times  is  soothing  and  musical ;  but  there 
are  other  times  when  it  becomes  almost  fright 
ful,  and  the  solid  earth  itself  seems  to  tremble 
under  its  regular  blows.  The  days  of  fair 
weather,  of  sunshine,  and  soft  southwesterly 
breezes  are  most  becoming  to  the  shore,  and 
bring  out  its  colors  best.  Ours  is,  as  Mrs. 
Hemans  very  justly  remarked,  "a  stern  and 
rock-bound  coast "  ;  and  harsh  as  those  lofty 
and  jagged  cliffs,  with  the  white  line  of  break 
ers  at  their  feet,  must  appear  to  mariners  in 
54 


BY  THE   SHORE. 


55 


danger  of  com 
ing  ashore, 
they  are  really 
as  picturesque, 
and  often  as 
grandiose,  as 
anything  in 
our  scenery. 
The  sea  has 

slowly  eaten  away  their  soft 
spots,  thereby  modelling  most 
fantastical  protuberances 
which  occasionally  take  on  the 
likeness  of  things  both  vegeta 
ble  and  animal.  Caverns  there 
are  wherein  a  strange  light 
penetrates,  and  as  the  tide 
rises  strange  wild  noises  issue 
thence.  A  curtain  of  marvel 
lous  texture,  from  mermaids' 
looms,  waves  in  graceful  wel 
come  at  the  portal.  Divers 
see  wondrous  sights  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  but,  after 


56  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

all,  not  more  beautiful  than  those  we  see  on  the 
surface. 

The  alternation  of  rock  with  sand  and  an  occa 
sional  headland  where  woods  rise  above  smooth 
pastures  at  a  short  distance  from  the  shore  form 
the  most  attractive  kind  of  coast,  though  there 
are  those  that  are  bolder  and  grander.  Cape 
Ann  is  a  good  type  of  the  class,  and,  take  it  all 
in  all,  the  North  Shore  has  no  superior,  though 
no  part  of  the  New  England  seaboard  is  wanting 
in  agreeable  features  of  its  own.  A  long,  wide, 
level  sweep  of  hard,  white  sand  is  a  perpetual 
delight,  particularly  for  the  fanatical  bather,  but 
its  glare  is  nearly  intolerable  in  the  middle  of  a 
cloudless  day,  and  one  willingly  seeks  the  nooks 
that  abound  among  the  gray  barnacled  granite 
chaos  that  re-echoes  the  salute  of  the  sounding 
main.  In  such  a  spot  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
tides  seems  doubly  rapid  and  mysterious.  Pen 
insulas  become  islands,  and  islands  vanish,  as 
the  eager  waters  climb,  swirling  in  sombre  cran 
nies,  retreating  only  to  advance  higher.  The 
flood  tide  gives  the  neater  aspect  of  affairs,  but 
low  tide  is  richer  in  matters  for  study,  and  un- 


BY  THE   SHORE.  57 

covers  a  wealth  of  colors  in  brown  and  yellow 
sea-weed  and  red  rock  and  blue  mud  and  bed 
of  vivid  eel-grass.  It  is  interesting  to  watch 
the  work  of  the  salt  water  and  its  creatures 
upon  the  neutral  zone  betwixt  high  and  low 
water  marks  ;  to  walk  over  countless  pebbles 


polished  smooth  as  pearls,  of  forms  more  varied 
than  the  art  of  man  might  invent,  and  of  colors 
dull  and  bright  to  rival  gems  of  purest  ray 
serene  ;  treasures  which  the  children,  more  wise 
than  we,  collect  and  value  as  if  they  were  the 
peers  of  the  Koh-i-noor  diamond  ;  to  inhale  the 
dank  odor  of  the  kelp,  uprooted  from  its  deep 
home  and  flung  upon  the  sands  to  be  devoted  to 


58  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

the  most  ignoble  uses  ;  to  startle  to  wriggling 
life  the  myriad  little  dwellers  in  the  warm 
shallows  ;  to  shake  the  well-knit  cerulean  ooze, 
whence  shoots  in  a  thin  stream  theyV/  d'eau  of 
the  clam  ;  to  mark  the  gradual  encroachment  of 
barnacles  and  slime  and  rock-weed  by  which 
the  sea  writes  its  careless  signature  upon  its 


conquests.  What  is  there,  of  all  things,  that  is 
not,  sooner  or  later,  washed  ashore  on  a  sea- 
beach  ?  There  are  whole  communities  upon  our 
coast  subsisting,  a  good  part  of  the  year  round, 
upon  the  sad  business  of  wrecking ;  and  I  have 
heard  of  a  British  brig  which  came  ashore  in 
Maine,  being  prematurely  abandoned  by  the 


BY  THE   SHORE.  59 

crew,  which  was  "  cleaned  out "  by  the  wreckers 
in  a  night,  while  the  sailors  were  hospitably 
entertained  at  the  houses  of  the  honest  toilers 
of  the  sea.  Many  innocent-looking  fishermen 
live  less  upon  their  ostensible  catch  than  upon 
the  more  or  less  lawful  flotsam  and  jetsam  com 
ing  their  way.  Dwellers  inland  can  have  but  a 
faint  idea  of  the  amount  of  " plunder"  fetched 
ashore  by  almost  every  tide,  even  in  pleasant 
weather,  on  certain  favored  shores.  The  lives 
of  some  lighthouse  keepers  would  possibly  be  a 
trifle  monotonous  if  it  were  not  for  this  source 
of  excitement ;  but  think  of  a  day  which  yielded 
one  twenty-pound  tub  of  butter  (in  good  condi 
tion)  ;  one  straw  mattress  (suspected  and  turned 
afloat  again) ;  one  huge  tree  trunk  direct  from 
South  America  or  the  Antilles,  riddled  with 
thousands  of  worm-holes ;  one  section  of  a  ma 
hogany  cabin  table,  with  a  finely  carved  leg; 
one  empty  beer  bottle;  a  part  of  a  jointed  fish 
pole ;  enough  wood  to  light  fires  for  a  week 
in  easterly  weather;  and  a  broken  book-cover 
with  the  following  remnant  of  a  title  :  — 


60  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

VOY 

OF 
SCHOO 

ELIZA  J 
RICHARD  COGGE 

OF 
NEW 
FROM 

1789   TO 

What  voyages  the  schooner  Eliza  Jane  sailed 
between  1789  and  the  year  of  her  demise  may 
be  imagined  only,  for  the  fragment  of  binding 
contains  no  pages  of  the  narrative  which  once 
filled  the  volume.  No  doubt  her  bones  lie  rot- 
ting  on  some  foreign  coast,  and  her  master's 
fill  a  peaceful  Yankee  grave  within  view  of  the 
blue  water.  The  deeds  of  both  may  be  sur 
mised.  He  was  a  big,  bluff,  hearty  man,  was 
Captain  Richard  ;  a  mighty  drinker  of  Medford 
rum  ;  a  terror  to  English  merchantmen  in  the 
war  of  1812  ;  and  I  warrant  you  he  fetched 
more  than  one  prize  into  port  in  the  brave 
days  of  old,  when  schooners  of  two  hundred 
and  fifty  tons  used  to  go  'round  the  Horn,  and 


BY  THE   SHORE.  6 1 

privateers  no  bigger  than  our  Puritans  and 
Mayflowers  of  to-day  would  chase  and  board 
and  capture  British  ships  right  under  the  noses 
of  their  frigates.  I  do  not  cite  the  list  of 
things  picked  up  alongshore  because  of  their 
great  value,  though  there  are  worse  finds  than 
a  tub  of  butter,  —  A  I,  "gilt-edged"  Vermont 
butter,  worth  at  least  thirty  cents  a  pound,  — 
but  mainly  because  things  thrown  up  by  the 
chances  of  wind,  tide,  and  current  on  the 
beach  are  so  suggestive,  having  histories  and 
a  look  of  having  travelled  far,  many  of  them, 
and  of  having  seen  strange  sights  and  passed 
through  odd  vicissitudes.  Most  of  them,  too, 
are  incomplete,  and  such  tales  as  they  tell  are 
very  sketchy.  One  has  to  supply  a  good  deal 
of  the  color  for  one's  self.  Still,  the  yarn  of  the 
carved  table-leg  would,  if  written  out  properly, 
be  very  interesting.  So  you  see  the  light- 
keeper's  time  does  not  hang  heavily  on  his 
hands  :  far  from  it.  The  difference  in  impor 
tance  between  his  daytime  occupations  and 
the  duties  of  a  bank  president  or  a  newspaper 
editor  is  purely  arbitrary  :  a  matter  of  mere 


62  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

convention.  At  night,  it  is  needless  to  say, 
he  holds  the  destinies  of  so  many  husbands, 
brothers,  fathers,  and  sons  in  his  hands,  and 
his  responsibility  is  so  great  and  so  well  borne, 
that  he  has  passed  into  literature  as  an  example 
of  fidelity  to  duty. 

The  sanitary  advantages  of  living  by  the  sea 
shore  in  the  summer  are  now  so  well  under 
stood,  especially  by  parents  who  wish  their 
children  to  grow  up  well  and  strong,  that  it 
is  only  a  question  of  time  for  the  New  England 
water-front  to  be  lined  in  its  entire  length  with 
houses,  cottages,  and  hotels.  Newport  is,  and 
probably  will  be  always,  our  most  elegant  coast 
resort.  Uncommonly  well  favored  by  nature, 
man  has  seconded  instead  of  masking  the  orig 
inal  beauties  of  a  picturesque  locality  rich  in 
historic  associations.  Cooper's  "  Red  Rover  " 
and  Higginson's  "Malbone"  and  "Oldport 
Days  "  contain  many  pages  of  great  interest 
respecting  this  summer  metropolis  of  wealth 
and  fashion.  Henry  James's  "  International 
Episode "  also  gives  an  amusing  glimpse  of 
life  and  society  there  as  seen  through  an  Eng- 


BY  THE   SHORE.  65 

lish  eye-glass.  Martha's  Vineyard  offers  a  curi 
ous  contrast  to  such  a  place  as  Newport ;  and 
Nahant,  which  Tom  Appleton  called  cold  roast 
Boston,  has  a  character  all  its  own.  The  most 
beautiful  harbors  of  our  coast  are  those  of  New 
port,  Gloucester,  New  London,  Eastport,  Boston, 
and  Portland.  Hunt's  painting  of  Gloucester 


harbor  has  been  made  widely  known  by  Stephen 
Parrish's  etching  after  it.  It  was  not  more  than 
a  sketch,  done  at  one  sitting,  but  the  effect  was 
happy.  Speaking  of  Gloucester,  every  one  who 
likes  a  well-told,  pathetic  story  should  read  Eliz 
abeth  Stuart  Phelps's  "  Madonna  of  the  Tubs." 
It  makes  fish  —  and  codfish  at  that  —  seem 


66  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

rather  too  dear,  to  think  of  the  number  of 
widows  and  orphans  left  in  Gloucester  every 
year  by  the  cruelty  of  the  sea.  Just  around 
the  tip  of  Cape  Ann  lies  that  great  stretch 
of  dazzling  white  sand  called  Ipswich  Beach, 
making  away  to  the  north.  The  picture  of  it, 
by  W.  Lo  Picknell,  belonging  to  the  Boston 
Museum  of  Fine  Arts,  is  naked  truth  itself,  — 
the  very  breath  of  nature.  If  this  were  a  book 
of  places,  as  perhaps  it  ought  to  be,  I  would 
like  nothing  better  than  to  describe  the  Isles 
of  Shoals,  Nantucket,  Provincetown,  Greenwich, 
Narragansett  Pier,  Watch  Hill,  Bath,  New  Bed 
ford,  Rye,  York,  Scituate,  Campobello,  Grand 
Menan,  Stonington,  Bristol,  Hampton,  Ply 
mouth,  Marblehead,  Salem,  Portsmouth,  Man- 
chester-by-the-Sea,  Beverly,  Swampscott,  Lynn, 
Cohasset,  and  the  many  other  charming  spots 
—  islands,  ports,  and  summer  resorts,  some  of 
them  less  known  but  not  a  whit  less  attractive 
and  interesting  —  that  embroider  the  eastern 
and  southern  frontiers  of  blessed  New  England. 


THE  ABANDONED  FARMHOUSE. 

THERE  are  many  abandoned  farmhouses  in 
New  England,  but  the  particular  one  to 
which  I  wish  to  refer  is  situated  on  a  hill-top, 
not  more  than  three  miles  from  a  city,  yet  in 
one  of  the  loneliest  localities  that  can  be  imag 
ined.  No  other  house  stands  near,  and  the 
place  is  well  wooded.  The  house  commands  a 
fine  prospect  in  two  directions.  Towards  the 
east,  looking  over  the  belt  of  thick  woods  which 
girdles  the  hill,  lies  the  town,  so  embowered  in 
trees  that  its  church  spires  only  and  its  tallest 
mill  chimneys  rise  into  view.  Beyond  it  is  the 

67 


68  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

red  face  of  a  steep  hill,  and,  at  the  right,  the  masts 
of  vessels  in  the  unseen  harbor ;  towards  the 
west,  orchards,  pasture  lands,  and  fields  of  grain, 
a  fat  and  sleek  agricultural  basin,  evidently  the 
property  of  the  farmer  whose  multitudinous 
barns  and  granaries  cover  the  crest  of  the  neigh 
boring  hill  more  than  half  a  mile  distant,  the 
house  being  so  small  in  comparison  with  the 
barns  that  it  would  scarcely  be  noticed  at  the 
first  glance.  The  views  are  pleasant  and  wide ; 
that  towards  the  town,  panoramic,  reminding  one 
of  an  old-fashioned  landscape  by  Thomas  Cole 
or  Asher  B.  Durand ;  that  towards  the  country, 
sunny,  cheerful,  agrestic.  This  hill-top  must 
have  been  a  beautiful  home  when  it  was  inhab 
ited.  Why  was  the  old  house  deserted  ?  I  do 
not  know  whether  the  old  people  died  without 
issue,  or  whether  the  children  "went  to  New 
York  "  to  starve  in  an  attic ;  and  I  have  never 
asked  the  neighbors.  It  is  quite  as  well  to  leave 
these  matters  to  speculation.  No  doubt  the  in 
mates  were  worthy  commonplace  folk  whose 
histories  would  add  no  glimmer  of  romance  to 
the  spot,  already  sufficiently  melancholy  in  its 


THE   ABANDONED    FARMHOUSE. 


69 


solitude  and  decay.  No  sound  comes  up  to  the 
hill-top  to-day  save  the  busy,  hot  rattle  of  a  dis 
tant  mowing-machine,  and  the  occasional  roar 
of  a  locomotive  from  afar.  Neither  mowing- 
machine  nor  locomotive  existed  when  this  house 


te!&&jkwm  --te^T\-. .}:] 

I"  i:  •  "-•  ;.'•  ',     ;  ,'."  -  f*^...i/    '       ..'    x       ,  •   ..   ,.\   t\^\ 


**^^?(?^MW>.  ••»••  Si$bt>'$ 


V. 


was  built.     There  was  such  a  thing  as  silence  in 
those  days. 

The  house  has,  or  rather  had,  two  stories  and 
a  small  wing,  which  was  probably  added  some 
time  after  the  building  of  the  main  part  of  the 
edifice.  In  the  centre  of  the  structure  there  was 
a  huge  chimney,  having  open  fire-places  on  three 


/O  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

sides.  The  rooms  were  low,  but  large,  well 
lighted,  and  pleasant.  The  cellar  extended  under 
all  parts  of  the  building,  and  now  serves  as  its 
sepulchre ;  for  day  by  day  morsels  of  plaster,  of 
wood,  of  brick,  and  of  stone  drop  one  by  one 
through  the  gaping  floors  and  form  a  mass  of 
debris  where  once  the  cider  and  the  apples  were 
hoarded.  The  doorstep  was  a  great,  flat,  unhewn 
stone,  slightly  worn  in  the  middle,  where  many 
feet  have  trod.  The  window  sashes  and  the 
doors  have  all  gone,  and  boards  have  been  nailed 
up  in  places  to  keep  the  rain  and  wind  from  the 
tramps  who  have  slept  on  the  floor  of  the  best 
room.  At  the  rear,  the  whole  wall  is  in  a  state 
of  complete  ruin,  and  a  coach  and  four  might  be 
driven  right  into  the  kitchen,  through  the  hid 
eous  breach  which  grows  wider  with  each  tem 
pest.  The  capacious  ovens  and  the  spit  where 
the  housewife  was  wont  to  cook  in  the  generous 
style  of  yore  are  the  sole  relics  of  the  departed 
occupants.  The  greater  part  of  the  floor  has 
caved  in ;  that  which  is  left  is  undulating,  and 
shakes  unpleasantly  when  walked  upon.  The 
falling  plaster  has  left  the  laths  bare  here  and 


THE   ABANDONED    FARMHOUSE.  71 

there,  like  the  flesh  leaving  the  bones  that  have 
upheld  it.  Steadily  the  work  of  decay  and  dis 
solution  goes  on ;  the  rain  and  the  heat  rot ;  the 
frost  cracks,  and  the  wind  racks  and  tears ;  the 
days  of  the  poor  old  house  are  numbered.  In 
the  full  sunlight  of  a  perfect  summer  day  it  has 
a  sad  dignity,  and,  among  its  lovely  surround 
ings,  a  beauty  of  its  own,  which  belongs  to  all 
things  old,  decrepit,  forlorn,  and  soon  to  be 
gone.  But  in  a  September  gale,  as  I  have  seen 
it,  when  the  breath  of  the  storm  was  boisterous, 
and  the  voice  of  the  southeast  wind  filled  the 
woods  with  strange  cries,  under  sombre  skies 
which  sent  down  torrents  of  rain,  the  venerable 
dwelling  was  a  grewsome  place.  Under  such 
circumstances  it  would  not  need  a  very  active 
fancy  to  conjure  up  all  sorts  of  spectres  in  its 
deserted  chambers,  particularly  at  those  times 
when  a  loosened  board,  swayed  by  a  gust  of 
more  than  ordinary  force,  beat  a  ghostly  reveille 
against  the  rafters. 

All  around  the  house  are  rank  growths  of 
bushes,  weeds,  and  wild  flowers.  Near  the 
front  door  is  a  rose  vine,  and  in  their  seasons 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


one  may  gather  rasp- 
"  berries,  blackberries, 

gooseberries,  cur 
rants,  close  by  the  little  wing.  The  yard  is 
full  of  milkweed,  and  at  intervals  stand  apple- 
trees  of  considerable  age,  some  of  which  bear 
good  fruit.  The  old  well  is  dismantled,  and 
planks  cover  it  up.  Not  far  from  the  rear 
of  the  house  there  is  a  magnificent  oak  ;  and 
farther  still  a  dense  wood  of  chestnuts,  hicko 
ries,  and  larches,  without  undergrowth,  worthy 
to  be  the  pleasure  park  of  a  royal  residence.  I 
have  never  seen  any  living  things  except  cows 


THE    ABANDONED    FARMHOUSE. 


73 


and  birds  enjoying  the  usufruct  of  this  unten- 
anted  domain,   where  one  is  tempted  to  "  lose 


and  neglect  the  creeping  hours  of  time."  Some 
day  a  wealthy  man  of  taste  will  take  this  estate, 
and,  in  the  place  of  the  ruined  farmhouse,  will 
build  a  new  home  for  himself  and  his  children, 
will  lay  out  walks  and  drives,  fence  in  his 
grounds,  and  make  a  little  Fontainebleau  or 
Saint  Cloud  of  this  solitude.  Lawn-mowers, 
instead  of  vagrant  cattle,  will  crop  the  turf ; 
brilliant  exotics  will  bloom  under  glass  where 


74  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

now  the  lurid  hollyhock,  the  decorous  hydrangea, 
the  "dear  common  flower"  that  gilds  the  fields 
and  byways  with  such  an  honest  yellow,  and  the 
still  more  common  field  daisy,  grow  in  untutored 
luxuriance ;  shining  equipages  will  roll  up  to  the 
doors  over  well-kept  roads  where  to-day  a  rick 
ety  farmer's  wagon  creeps  by  with  the  rattle 
and  squeak  of  vehicular  senility.  Carriages,  by 
the  way,  have  done  much  to  destroy  the  roman 
ticism  which  flourished  when  men  travelled  on 
horseback ;  and  I  doubt  whether  a  solitary 
bicycler,  even  at  twilight,  would  have  the  same 
interest  for  novel-readers  as  the  cloaked  cavalier 
ascending  the  hill  in  the  rain.  What  a  scene 
for  a  story  of  adventure  and  intrigue  !  Would 
that  Hawthorne  might  have  known  the  place : 
he  would  have  made  it  immortal.  This  fit 
theatre  for  a  drama  of  human  passions  reminds 
me,  though  different,  of  a  little  picture  by  Ruys- 
dael,  with  figures  by  Wouvermans,  in  the  Bos 
ton  Museum  of  Fine  Arts.  The  subject  is  a 
ruined  farmhouse,  where  a  party  of  travellers 
have  halted  to  rest  and  breathe  their  horses. 
The  painting  is  rather  dark,  and  the  figures  are 


THE    ABANDONED    FARMHOUSE. 


75 


very  small,  but  it  is  astonishing  how  complete 
is  the  unity  of  the  persons  and  animals  with  the 
landscape :  all  being  enveloped  in  the  same 
air  and  illuminated  by  the  same  light.  An  in 
explicable  impression  emanates  from  the  canvas, 


of  vague  romance :  it  is  as  intangible  as  the 
odor  of  faded  violets,  but  inspires  a  personal 
interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  horseman,  and 
hangs  the  work  forever  on  the  line  in  memory's 
picture-gallery. 


IN   FIELD    AND    MEADOW. 

HAYMAKING,  apart  from  its  utilitarian 
aspects,  which  need  not  concern  us,  is 
from  beginning  to  end  one  of  the  most  pictu 
resque  of  the  farmer's  multifarious  occupations. 
At  first  there  is  the  great  field  full  of  tall,  ripe 
grass,  itself  a  handsome  sight  as  it  waves  in 
the  breeze  and  shines  in  the  sun.  The  hot  and 
cloudless  morning  comes  when  the  metallic 
drone  of  the  mowing-machine  announces  the 
downfall  of  the  savory  crop.  No  sound  is  more 
76 


ft 


IN   FIELD   AND    MEADOW.  // 

intimately  associated  with  the  warm  season  in 
the  country  than  this  drowsy  music  of  the 
knives,  as  there  is  no  odor  more  thoroughly 
rustic  than  that  of  the  new-mown  hay.  Now 
the  sweating  steeds  toil  steadily  from  corner  to 
corner  of  the  diminishing  square  of  living  ver 
dure,  and  the  long  ranks  of  timothy  and  herds- 
grass  fall  like  brave  battalions  before  the  deadly 
charge  of  a  superior  foe.  Next  appears  that 
prosaic  successor  to  Whittier's  "Maud  Muller" 
—  the  horse-rake,  which  so  easily  performs  its 
function  that  "  The  Rake's  Progress  "  seems  a 
veritable  play.  Then  the  laborers  with  hand- 
rakes  swiftly  heap  the  sun-cured  haycocks  at 
regular  intervals  to  await  the  wain.  It  is  com 
mon  now  for  the  signs  of  a  shower  to  be  shown 
in  the  north,  "to  spur  their  expedition,"  and 
all  hands  must  work  in  lively  fashion  to  get  the 
last  load  home  before  the  rain  falls.  As  Troyon 
knew  full  well,  a  huge  load  of  hay  drawn  by  an 
ox  team  is  an  object  to  make  a  noble  picture 
of.  There  was  a  delightful  painting  of  a  hay 
making  scene  by  Julien  Dupre  in  the  Paris 
Salon  of  1 88 1.  Blue-black  clouds  gave  a  broad 


?8  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

hint  of  coming  wet,  and  a  group  of  men  in 
blouses,  and  women  in  blue  cotton  gowns,  with 
gaudy  colored  head-dresses,  hastily  raked  the 
hay  and  pitched  it  upon  the  already  enormous 
cartload  which  formed  an  effective  mass  of 
golden  brown  against  the  lowering  sky.  It  is 
not  often  that  women  participate  in  the  hay 
making  in  New  England,  and  the  men  would 
sooner  suffer  almost  any  indignity  than  wear 
the  uniform  of  a  peasantry,  no  matter  how 
comfortable  or  becoming  it  might  be. 

Into  the  generous  portals  of  the  big  barn 
the  fragrant  load  is  hauled  in  time,  and  then, 
hardest  and  hottest  task  of  all,  the  rustling  hay 
is  stowed  in  the  mows  in  immense  forkfuls, 
and  "mowed  "  (i.e.  distributed  evenly)  in  all  the 
shadowy,  dusty,  stifling,  cobwebbed  recesses  of 
its  winter  quarters.  This  done,  the  heated 
laborers  may  cease,  the  day's  work  being  ended, 
with  the  exception  of  the  "  chores."  In  the 
half-night  of  the  cattle-sheds,  the  cows,  just 
driven  home  from  the  pasture  by  a  barefooted 
boy,  stand  blandly  chewing  their  cuds  and 
switching  off  the  flies  with  their  never-quiet 


IN   FIELD   AND   MEADOW.  8 1 

tails,  as  they  wait  to  be  milked.  The  oxen 
now  are  turned  into  the  barn-yard  to  be  fed 
and  watered ;  they  are  superb  there  in  repose, 
as  the  light  falls  on  their  lustrous  flanks,  and 
Troyon  himself  might  feel  his  incompetency 
to  cope  with  such  royal  hues  and  majestic 
masses.  The  horses  must  be  fed,  watered, 
bedded :  there  they  stand  in  the  twilight  of 
the  stable,  as  Gericault  represented  a  row  of 
them  — the  bay,  the  black,  the  roan  —  rear  view, 
every  line  speaking  of  life.  The  pigs'  inap- 
peasable  appetites  are  to  be  mitigated  by  some 
gallons  of  swill ;  the  hens  are  to  have  their 
hour  to  cluck,  to  scramble,  to  peck,  to  fight, 
to  greedily  grab  their  fill  of  corn  ;  and  so  the 
cheerful  routine  of  the  farm  goes  on. 

What  a  charming  landscape  is  framed  soberly 
by  the  great  open  doorways  of  the  red  barn ! 
Across  the  dusty  highway,  bordered  by  wide 
strips  of  glossy  turf  rich  in  clover,  the  apple 
orchard  arrays  its  aisles  and  bowers  of  green 
shadow,  and  its  grotesque  arabesques  of  gnarled 
limbs,  down  the  long  gradual  slope  to  where 
the  big  meadow  lies.  The  meadow  !  there  is 


82 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


something  sunny,  large,  and  calm  about  the 
very  word.  Every  farmer  has  a  favorite  meadow 
in  some  corner  of  his  domain,  known  as  "  The 
Meadow,"  or  qualified  according  to  circumstances 
as  the  Big,  the  Long,  the  Hillside,  the  Swamp, 
etc.  From  year  to  year  there  is  very  little 
change  jn  the  appearance  of  the  meadow.  The 


boy  who  drives  home  the  cattle  becomes  a  man, 
and,  led  by  the  auri  sacra  fames,  goes  away ; 
but,  whether  it  be  in  Chicago,  Valparaiso,  Rome, 
Calcutta,  Cape  Town,  or  Melbourne,  that  he 
elects  to  pass  his  last  days  on  earth,  let  me  ask 
if  you  think  that  he  ever  forgets  the  meadow ; 
the  spring  in  the  corner  where  the  willows 
grow,  where  the  moist  earth  is  marked  by  the 


IN   FIELD   AND   MEADOW.  83 

hoofprints  of  the  cows,  where  the  low  stone-wall 
makes  such  a  pleasant  seat  in  the  shade,  where 
the  call  of  the  quail,  —  "  Bob  White  !  More 


wet ! "  —  the  note  of  the  blackbird,  the  song  of 
the  thrush,  and  the  zigzag  flight  of  a  thousand 
butterflies  are  but  memories  of  long  ago,  that 
revive  with  a  strange  persistency  and  sweet- 


84  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

ness  in  the  wanderer's  tough  old  heart  ?  The 
rough  rocky  slopes,  the  sandy  soil,  the  rugged 
faces  of  the  hills,  yield  but  a  lean  supply  in 
comparison  with  the  inexhaustible  crops  of  the 
rich  Western  lands ;  but  how  infinitely  supe 
rior  are  our  horizons,  albeit  they  profit  only 
our  eyes.  However  much  o£  a  clod  a  man  may 
be,  he  perceives  such  things  as  these,  often 
without  knowing  it :  they  are  felt  in  the  blood. 
Constant  usage  may  dull,  but  not  extinguish, 
the  faculty  of  observation ;  and  it  is  not  true  of 
our  country  population,  whatever  may  be  said 
of  the  European,  that  it  has  no  soul  for  any 
thing  higher  than  the  petty  material  interests 
of  a  narrow  life  of  toil.  A  man  may  indeed  live 
among  fine  pictures  all  his  life,  like  the  police 
man  in  the  National  Gallery,  and  yet  be  not  an 
authority  upon  the  fine  arts  ;  but  Nature's  lan 
guage  is  more  universal,  and  her  eloquence  is 
more  readily  understood  of  all  men,  so  that  the 
poorest  rustic  is  not  so  poor  but  he  receives 
impressions  which,  had  he  the  means  of  trans 
lating  them,  would  go  to  swell  the  world's  fund 
of  poetry.  Millet  made  his  peasants  pathetic  fig- 


IN   FIELD   AND   MEADOW.  85 

ures  ;  but  we  have  no  peasant  class  ;  and  surely 
his  lot  is  not  so  pitiable  who  lives  outdoors,  is 
never  idle,  has  no  fear  of  want,  and  can  possess 
those  homely  joys  which  are,  after  all,  the  best, 
the  most  lasting,  and  the  most  wholesome.  In 
our  complicated  cockney  civilization,  the  most 
dignified  personality  is  his  who  stands  apart, 
with  a  background  of  landscape.  He  is  not 
bending  over  a  ticker  to  read  the  latest  stock 
quotations  ;  nor  pursuing  the  gold-bug,  Tantalus- 
like,  from  railroad  to  railroad  and  from  steamer 
to  steamer ;  neither  is  he  feeding  a  printing- 
press  with  horrors  and  nastiness ;  he  is  not  in 
war  nor  politics ;  and,  for  all  that  he  is  not,  he  is 
entitled  to  our  most  sincere  admiration.  Millet 
saw  that  the  peasant  was  most  like  the  ancient 
men,  because  his  life  was  simple  and  his  char 
acter  had  repose ;  this  is  why  the  rough,  stolid 
rustic,  in  his  setting  of  fields  and  meadows, 
has  something  in  him  that  reminds  us  of  the 
strength,  the  soundness,  the  freedom,  and  the 
unconscious  dignity  of  classic  models  in  old  art. 
Next  to  the  manly  calling  of  the  sailor  stands 
that  of  the  farmer ;  in  both,  man  and  nature  are 


86  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

forever  tete-a-tete.  Contact  with  the  elements 
is  what  humanity  needs,  and  not  to  be  hived  in 
mills,  stores,  and  offices.  More  outdoor  life, 
and  fewer  physicians  !  More  sun  and  wind,  and 
less  physic ! 


'^^l^^^]^f^^^^.!'^^'^^:;:^ 

-^•mron-Cp,,,-.,,,, (to&a*'~~ '-y- ~"~':~*  ~^~J»  - — : 


"Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither; 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather." 

The  most   delightful    description    of   country 
life    that    I    know   of    is    that    in    Blackmore's 


IN   FIELD   AND   MEADOW.  8/ 

"Lorna  Doone,"  the  hero  of  which  is  a  superb 
specimen  of  the  old-fashioned  race  of  farmers. 
There  are  some  fine  pictures  of  agricultural 
life  also  in  Hardy's  "  Far  from  the  Madding 
Crowd  ";  and  I  would  be  at  a  loss  to  say  where 
more  poetical  prose  could  be  found  than  in  some 
of  Andre  Theuriet's  stories  of  rural  France. 
Once  in  a  while  George  Sand  gives  you  a 
splendid  word-picture  of  some  favorite  scenery. 
William  Black  in  his  earliest  works  was  fond 
of  painting  landscapes  with  his  pen,  but  he 
rather  overloads  his  colors,  and  approaches 
perilously  near  the  chromo.  Old  Dumas  could 
be  great  in  almost  any  province,  and  occasion 
ally  he  dashes  off  a  landscape  sketch  of  wonder 
ful  reality,  as  witness  the  account  of  a  storm 
among  the  mountains  in  the  opening  pages 
of  "  Le  Trou  de  1'Enfer,"  though  perhaps  you 
will  say  that  sort  of  scene-painting  is  of  the 
theatre,  and  is  intended  only  as  a  background 
for  the  figures  that  strut  upon  the  stage.  Well, 
who  has  not  seen  remarkably  fine  landscapes, 
pastoral  as  well  as  romantic,  in  the  scenery  of 
the  playhouse  ?  And  what  is  landscape  in  its 


88 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


widest  sense  but  a  vast  background  for  human 
ity  ? —  a  background  of  infinite  variety,  gran 
deur,  and  beauty,  worthy  of  its  purpose,  but 
forever  secondary,  for  the  reason  that  nothing 
can  be  so  interesting  to  men  as  Man. 


THE   THUNDER    STORM. 

BROTHER  to  the  western  cyclone,  the 
thunder  storm,  usually  more  sedate  in 
its  demeanor,  is  not  always  less  harmful.  The 
almanac  makes  but  small  account  of  what  it 
calls  local  storms,  yet  these  events  are  fright 
ful  enough  in  New  England  during  the  dog- 
days  to  scare  thousands  of  people  each  season, 
killing  a  few,  maiming  others,  and  doing  a  sum 

89 


90  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

of  damage  to  real  property  which,  if  calculated 
in  round  figures,  would  make  an  appalling  to 
tal.  My  meteorological  vade  mecum  informs 
me  that  thunder  storms  are  "  apt  to  occur" 
wherever  warm,  moist,  ascending  currents  meet 
with  cold,  descending  currents ;  twelve  or  thir 
teen  hours  in  advance  they  are  announced 
by  a  stratus  of  cumulus  having  innumerable 
tufts  or  turrets  on  the  top ;  they  are  "  most 
likely  to  occur  "  between  the  hours  of  three  and 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon ;  and  it  is  the 
theory  of  the  weather-wise  that  when  the 
cumuli  appear  during  the  heat  of  the  day,  and 
pass  away  in  the  evening,  continued  fair  weather 
may  be  expected  ;  but  when  they  increase  rap 
idly,  sink  into  the  lower  part  of  the  atmosphere, 
and  remain  as  the  evening  approaches,  rain  is 
at  hand.  These  are  a  small  part  of  the  great 
system  of  signs  which  enables  close  observers 
to  make  good  guesses  as  to  the  weather.  It 
is  certain  that,  though  the  cumuli,  commonly 
known  as  cotton-bales  or  thunder-heads,  seldom 
fail  to  put  in  their  appearance  in  the  lower  part 
of  the  sky  during  the  hot  days  of  July  and 


THE  THUNDER   STORM.  91 

August,  they  are  not  the  infallible  forerunners 
of  rain  by  any  means.  These  are  the  hand 
somest  of  clouds,  and  assume  the  greatest 
variety  of  forms  and  colors,  especially  towards 
night.  Nothing  more  celestially  innocent,  peace 
ful,  beatific,  in  the  skies,  than  yon  bank  of 
splendid  gray  vapor,  sailing  slowly  above  the 
horizon,  assuming  from  moment  to  moment  a 
hundred  indescribable  shapes,  alive  with  subtle 
lights  ;  a  vision  of  purity  and  grace  and  leisure. 
Domes  and  towers,  summits  of  snow  shining  aloft 
like  Pyrenean  peaks,  range  upon  range  of  intan 
gible  Alps,  glorious  in  their  inaccessible  altitude, 
they  move  in  state  like  airy  gods,  glow  with 
golden  and  rosy  fires,  and  cause  the  heart  of 
man  to  leap  up  when  he  beholds  them.  Who 
would  suppose  that  havoc  lurked  in  the  bosom 
of  so  much  loveliness  ? 

It  is  a  sultry  afternoon.  The  air  is  lifeless, 
stifling,  torrid.  The  wind  has  died  out,  and  a 
complete  calm  broods  over  the  simmering  fields 
and  the  glassy  water.  The  flies  bite  with  un 
common  malignancy.  The  trees  and  flowers 
droop,  as  if  waiting  for  something.  As  the 


92  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

afternoon  draws  on,  there  is  a  prolonged  distant 
rumbling,  now  broken  by  a  louder  accent,  now 
dying  away  in  a  subdued  growl.  Sometimes  the 
far  sound  of  the  thunder  will  be  almost  inces 
sant  for  one  or  two  hours  before  the  storm 


comes  near  enough  to  make  its  lightnings  visi 
ble.  Then  in  the  northwest  rises  a  portentous 
blue-black  bank  of  clouds,  spreading  rapidly  and 
steadily  over  the  tenderer  blue  of  the  open  sky, 
sending  its  skirmish-line  forward  in  brisk  puffs 
of  wind  to  relieve  the  heavy  and  oppressive 
calm  that  hangs  over  the  earth  in  front  of  the 


THE  THUNDER   STORM.  93 

tempest.  The  foremost  edge  of  the  revolving 
cloud-bank  is  a  long,  crescent  line,  broken  into 
shorter  scallops,  embroidered  with  a  woolly  gray 
vapor,  curling  and  wreathing  like  smoke  in 
minor  circles  as  it  comes.  Beneath  this  busy 
advance-guard  extends  the  dense,  flat  face  of 
dark-blue  rain-cloud,  now  at  intervals  seared  by 
the  zigzag  signature  of  the  lightning  bolt ;  and 
finally  beneath  the  storm's  farthest  skirt,  a 
brazen  gleam  from  the  sun-touched  west.  The 
measure  of  the  dance  grows  more  tempestuous. 
Now  the  smoky  tufts  of  the  storm's  high  cor 
nice  are  whirling  overhead.  The  first  large 
drops  of  rain  patter  noisily  on  the  roof.  The 
first  full-fledged  blast  of  the  furious  squall  lays 
low  the  trembling  treetops,  rends  here  a  sapling 
and  there  a  feeble  branch,  and  sends  a  panic- 
stricken  host  of  loose  leaves  trooping  through 
the  air. 

Now  shorten  all  sail,  skipper,  and  stand  by  to 
luff !  Shut  windows,  housewife,  and  make  all 
snug  alow  and  aloft !  Bend  patiently  your  head, 
belated  traveller,  and  draw  your  cloak  closer  ! 
To  your  coops,  pretty  chicks !  For  here  it 
comes. 


94 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


With  a  stentorian, 
exultant  roar  the  pa 
rent     blast    is    upon 
us,    and    all   the   air 
is    vocal    with   the 
shrill  holiday  chorus 
of    his    fi end-family,! 
madly    rollicking    in 
the    trees,    savagely 
whipping    the   vines 
and    shrubs,    yelling 
down  the  chimneys, 
and   piping   a   dia 
bolic  dance  tune   all 
about  the  house.     Down 
falls   the   solid,   slanting   flood 
of  rain,  with  its  splendid  diapason  of 
battle,   no    dainty  drizzle,   but    a   drenching, 
drowning  downpour,  a  soaking,  cats -and -dogs 
torrent,  finding  instantly  all  leaks,  washing  out 
highways,  swelling  springs  to  brooks,  brooks  to 
creeks,  and  creeks  to  rivers,  flattening  the  fair 
growing  grain,   undermining  culverts,  bursting 
dams,  submerging  cities,  and  making  merry  over 


THE   THUNDER   STORM.  95 

its  carnival  of  moist  mischief  with  a  wild  wet  joy. 
Above  even  its  mighty  uproar  laughs  the  deep- 
chested  wind ;  the  thunder  god  claps  his  colossal 
hands  in  Olympian  glee ;  and  myriad  echoes 
among  the  clouds  send  back  the  applause  of 
the  elements  in  long-drawn  reverberations,  as 
it  were  the  rolling  of  titanic  drums  calling  the 
powers  of  the  upper  air  to  mortal  combat.  The 
lightning  seems  to  draw  nearer.  'Tis  a  fear 
ful  guest,  that  comes  unbidden  and  strikes 
home  with  merciful  speed,  —  Death's  fleetest 
agent.  Bolts  fall  in  forked  lines  of  blinding 
brilliancy,  shooting  shafts  of  infernal  fabrica 
tion  at  that  scarred  old  target,  the  earth,  rend 
ing  the  atmosphere  into  fiery  shreds  and  sec 
tions,  running  a  race  with  old  Time  and 
beating  him,  eating  up  the  darkness,  and  etch-, 
ing  crazy  sketches  on  the  shield  of  the  night- 
black  heavens. 

What  a  little  creature  a  man  is  now  !  how 
helpless,  how  overawed !  The  figure  in  this 
landscape  is  a  petty  thing,  and  wishes  it  were 
smaller  yet. 

By  almost  imperceptible  degrees  the  crisis  of 


96  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

the  storm  passes  and  its  rage  abates.  The 
downpour  dwindles  to  a  fine,  thin  rain.  The 
winds  wail  more  weakly.  The  thunder  strug^ 
gles  and  howls  in  its  reluctant  retreat.  Belated 


lightnings  dart  fiercely  through  the  sweetened 
air.  In  a  moment  the  sun  will  burst  forth  in  a 
rift  of  the  clouds,  and  set  the  million  drops  of 
water  on  leaves  and  grass  to  shining,  not  like 
diamonds,  as  some  poets  would  have  it,  but 
much  more  heartily  than  any  such  heartless 
stones.  Foul  puddles  clear  up  their  mirror- 
faces  to  reflect  the  blue  sky  that  will  soon  be 
uncurtained.  Step  outdoors  and  inhale  the 


THE  THUNDER   STORM. 


97 


freshness  of  the  well-washed  world.  The  birds 
are  fairly  outdoing  themselves  in  the  exuberance 
of  their  carols.  From  the  trees  and  bushes  and 
from  the  eaves  of  the  house  there  is  a  smart 
and  rhythmical  dripping.  The  rain  has  passed  ; 
all  is  clean  and  cool ;  Nature  emerges  from  her 
bath,  sparkling,  refreshed,  rejuvenated. 

Over  in  the  south  the  storm  can  be  seen  pur 
suing  its  progress  out  to  sea.  It  is  grand  to 
watch  the  sight-outrunning  lightning  in  its 
gambols  over  the  water,  now  that  it  has  retired 
to  a  safe  distance.  The  sun  sets,  night  falls, 
and  in  the  darkness  of  the  evening  the  specta 
cle  becomes  more  vivid  and  marvellous.  A 
vast  rack  of  cumulus  clouds,  upheaved  in  bulg 
ing  masses,  with  towering  alabaster  domes, 
overhangs  the  horizon,  and  -stands  out  momen 
tarily  in  perfect  distinctness  as  "Jove's  light 
nings,  the  precursors  o'  the  dreadful  thunder 
claps,"  illuminate  it  with  a  pink  light.  The 
play  of  the  flashes  is  almost  incessant,  for 
several  storms  are  raging  out  there  at  once. 
The  rosy  lines  leap  from  dome  to  dome,  or, 
more  often,  dive  from  some  lofty  cloud-summit 


98  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

into  the  very  depths  of  the  black  ocean.  Those 
flames  that  are  borne  down  beyond  the  nearest 
clouds,  and  shine  from  their  vaporous  valley 
upon  the  second  range,  make  its  flanks  appear 
like  some  immense  canopy,  through  which  they 
send  the  intense  reflection  of  their  unseen  fires. 
Too  far  removed  from  the  storm  centre  to  hear 
the  thunder,  the  spectator  may  sit  and  watch 
such  a  Witch's  Sabbath  half  through  the  night, 
with  the  stars  winking  overhead. 

In  the  famous  Morgan  collection  there  was 
a  splendid  picture  of  the  coming-on  of  a  thunder 
storm.  It  was  by  Diaz.  A  man  wearing  a 
cloak  was  crossing  a  wide  plain,  where  the  rising 
wind  already  swept  with  great  violence,  bend 
ing  and  twisting  trees  and  bushes  in  its  path, 
and  making  the  traveller's  farther  progress  a 
matter  of  no  slight  difficulty.  Over  a  large  part 
of  the  sky  was  spread  a  cloud-bank  of  inky 
bluish-black,  with  an  undertone  of  coppery  green, 
suggestive  of  tornadoes  and  windy  ruin.  The 
clouds  had  not  the  funnel-form,  however,  which 
is  supposed  to  characterize  the  cyclone,  and 
doubtless  what  Diaz  had  witnessed  was  nothing 


THE   THUNDER   STORM.  ;          >  -  ,  J,C;r 


more  than  an  effete  European  squall  travelling 
at  the  moderate  rate  of  fifteen  and  one-half 
miles  an  hour,  instead  of  an  American  storm 
which  has  an  average  speed  of  twenty-six  and 
one-tenth  miles  an  hour.  Isabey  has  described  a 
stormy  day  with  much  skill,  too,  in  his  "Embark 
ation,"  a  work  full  of  nerve,  conveying  an 
admirable  impression  of  "  dirty"  weather.  Hunt 
undertook  to  paint  a  thunder  storm  once,  but 
with  indifferent  success  ;  it  was  not  one  of  his 
good  days.  I  suppose  that  nobody  has  ever  illus 
trated  showery  weather  so  faithfully  as  Consta 
ble —  weather  which  means  "take  your  umbrella 
with  you  when  you  go  out  to-day,"  —  or  in 
other  words,  the  sort  of  weather  alluded  to  in 
the  classic  legend:  — 

"  Open  and  shet, 
The  day1!!  be  wet." 


SUNSET   EFFECTS. 

WHEN  the  Almighty  hung  the  sun  in  the 
heavens,  and  gave  men  eyes  wherewith 
to  see  its  light,  he  offered  one  capital  proof  of 
his  kindness  toward  his  children  ;  yet  how  few 
of  them  ever  lift  their  eyes  from  their  hideous 
ledgers  long  enough  to  observe  the  beauty  of 
the  sky,  land,  and  sea,  all  animated  by  the  ever- 
shifting  sunlight,  which  paints  silver  and  golden 
pictures  everywhere  from  hour  to  hour,  and,  in 
departing  from  the  world  at  night,  sends  up  a 
chromatic  hymn  of  praise  which  makes  glorious 
the  firmament  from  west  to  east.  A  world 


SUNSET   EFFECTS.  103 

without  light  and  color  is  not  to  be  conceived. 
The  moon  is  a  paradox,  not  fit  for  man  to  live 
on.  How  can  night  be  without  day  ? 

There  is  a  sweet  melancholy  in  the  sunset 
hour,  like  that  of  the  fall  of  the  year,  or  of  the 
parting  of  friends  who  hope  to  meet  again. 
The  day  is  ended,  with  its  tasks,  and  one  more 
etapc  in  the  long  march  is  done  :  a  few  hours' 
rest,  and  then  on  again !  The  time  invites 
meditation.  Since  man  does  not  live  by  bread 
alone,  the  eyes  should  be  fed  as  well  as  the  stom 
ach,  and  in  the  optical  diet  of  each  day's  round, 
so  full  of  variety,  the  setting  of  the  sun  may  be 
regarded  as  the  dessert,  or  the  after-dinner  cof 
fee,  which  is  to  leave  its  taste  longest  on  the 
palate  of  the  sight. 

Though  no  two  sunsets  are  exactly  alike, 
there  is  not  one  of  them  but  has  some  hand 
some  features  in  it ;  as  a  general  rule  those  that 
are  most  admired  because  of  their  extreme  bril 
liancy  of  coloring  are  even  less  beautiful  than 
the  quieter  sort  which  often  pass  unnoticed. 
One  reason  is  that  a  vast  number  of  people 
dwell  in  towns,  in  valleys,  or  among  trees,  where 


104  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

they  can  see  only  a  small  part  of  the  sky,  and 
naturally  they  do  not  take  much  interest  in 
what  is  going  on  up  there  unless  it  is  something 
altogether  extraordinary.  They  will  admire, 
most  probably,  a  sunset  of  the  sanguinary  sort, 
where  the  clouds  are  dyed  a  blood  red,  as 
depicted  in  the  well-known  paintings  of  Mr. 
Vermilion  which  are  all  so  much  alike  ;  not  that 
his  pictures  are  untruthful,  either,  as  pictures 
go  :  he  saw  that  effect  once,  and  has  been  paint 
ing  it  ever  since,  unmindful  of  the  fact  that 
Nature's  programme  is  eternally  diversified.  A 
flaming  debauch  of  warm  color,  such  as  Dela 
croix  or  Turner  would  have  hardly  dared  to  re 
produce  in  all  its  riotous  intensity,  this  just 
suited  Vermilion,  who,  without  a  thought  of 
difficulty,  translated  it  into  a  thoroughly  bour 
geois  and  hopelessly  prosaic  picture,  after  a 
snug  little  recipe  of  his  own,  the  gods  not  hav 
ing  made  him  poetical.  There  is  less  art  enters 
into  the  making  of  such  paintings  than  Aunt 
Matilda  uses  in  the  compounding  of  her  mince- 
pies,  for  she  varies  the  flavor  by  adding  more 
or  less  of  this  or  that  ingredient  in  each  batch, 


SUNSET   EFFECTS.  105 

and  follows  no  invariable  rule,  relying  upon  in 
stinct,  and  taking  an  artist's  pleasure  in  the 
soundness  of  the  work ;  whereas  Mr.  Vermilion, 
and  those  other  mechanical  painters,  Messrs. 
Ultramarine  and  Chrome  Yellow,  have  forgot 
the  youthful  inspiration  which  gave  them  their 
first  start  in  the  profession,  and  blindly  adhere 
to  established  formulae  for  the  manufacture  of 
ruddy  sunsets,  cerulean  Venices,  and  summer 
twilights.  The  worthy  citizen  who  buys  these 
ready-made  mediocrities  is  rather  pleased  than 
otherwise  to  know  that  his  acquisitions  are  so 
similar  to  all  the  rest  of  the  trio's  productions 
that  visitors  never  fail  to  recognize  the  pater 
nity  of  his  treasures,  and  it  is  a  comfort  in  these 
days  to  feel  that  one  owns  something  genuine 
if  not  unique.  Nor  have  we  any  right  to  com 
plain,  for  Vermilion,  Ultramarine,  and  Chrome 
Yellow  are  good  fellows  :  and  it  is  not  wholly 
their  fault  that  there  are  so  many  artists  in  the 
world  still  awaiting  recognition  in  the  obscurity 
of  their  sixth-floor-back  studios.  And  then  — 
to  return  to  our  sunsets  —  perhaps  a  part  of  my 
prejudice  against  effects  of  Mr.  Vermilion's 


106  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

kind  is  literary  ;  certainly  it  is  hard  to  find  a 
novel,  a  poem,  or  a  book  of  travel  without  its 
description  of  at  least  one  remarkable  red  sun 
set.  However,  there  is  no  cheapness,  thank 
Heaven !  about  the  real  article,  be  it  in  any 
combination  of  the  primary  colors.  Words  and 
pictures  may  grow  hackneyed,  tiresome,  and 
stale,  but  the  things  they  stand  for  lose  nothing 
by  age  and  repetition.  In  Nature,  says  Emer 
son,  all  is  useful,  all  is  beautiful.  There  is  no 
crudity  in  the  most  brilliant  of  real  effects, 
no  fever  in  the  warmest  coloring,  no  excess  of 
frigidity  in  the  coolest.  The  atmosphere  is  a 
magical  tonist,  and  never  falsifies  a  value. 
Harmony  is  everywhere  except  on  your  medio 
cre  painter's  palette ;  yet,  strangely  enough,  it 
is  he  who  is  forever  prating  about  realism,  as  if 
photography  were  the  highest  form  of  pictorial 
art,  and  the  world  were  dead  and  colorless. 
Away  with  a  realism  which  has  nothing  real 
about  it  except  its  pretensions  ;  let  it  go  the 
same  way  as  the  impressionism  devoid  of  im 
pressions.  The  truths  that  were  good  enough 
for  Raphael  and  Correggio,  for  Rembrandt  and 


SUNSET   EFFECTS. 


109 


Velasquez,  are  good  enough  for  us  ;  and  we  are 
free  to  seek  them  where  they  sought  and  found 
them,  in  the  heart  of  Nature,  without  interme 
diaries.  The  schools  have  never  yet  made  a 
great  painter,  and  never  will. 

The  handsomest  part  of  a  handsome  sunset  is 


often  in  the  region  of  the  sky  farthest  removed 
from  the  light,  that  is  to  say,  the  east ;  although 
it  is  true  that  the  whole  expanse  of  the  sky  is 
likely  to  assist  in  the  radiant  pageant,  each  sec 
tion  having  its  own  peculiar  beauties,  from  a 
flaming  fiery  centre  outward  through  countless 
gradations  to  the  last  faint  reflection  of  warm 


1 10  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

color  lingering  on  the  crest  of  some  mysterious 
low-lying  cloud.  My  western  horizon  is  admir 
able,  and  no  landscapist  could  see  it  at  sundown 
without  wishing  to  paint  it.  At  the  left  is  a 
village  with  here  and  there  a  red  roof ;  then  a 
group  of  healthy  cherry  trees  about  one-eighth 
of  a  mile  distant ;  full  a  mile  beyond  is  the  well- 
defined  ridge  of  a  very  respectable  hill,  crowned 
by  a  fine  thick  wood ;  now  fancy  nearer  trees  in 
tervening,  and  then  a  reach  of  still  more  distant 
hill,  almost  bare  of  trees.  Two  large  apple- 
trees  not  far  away  lift  a  mass  of  dark  foliage  to 
the  sky.  To  the  extreme  right  the  crest  of  a 
gentle  slope  makes  away  in  the  middle  distance 
to  the  northward.  These  lines  are  suave  and 
smiling,  but  not  insipid.  There  is  something 
very  distinctive  and  piquant  about  the  shape  of 
the  bluish-green  wood  in  the  first  distance ;  it  is 
"  backed  like  a  weasel "  ;  and  that  is  where  the 
sun  goes  down.  When  it  goes  down  in  a  gilt- 
edged  edition,  leaving  the  sky  clothed  in  an 
effulgent  livery  of  amber  and  brass,  that  mass 
of  trees  is  full  as  sombre,  impenetrable,  and 
dusky  as  any  ever  painted  by  Daubigny.  When 


SUNSET   EFFECTS. 


Ill 


it  goes  down  from  out  a  clear  field  of  pale 
greenish  blue,  and  leaves  a  film  of  dusty  purple 
over  it,  with  slate-colored  cirri  trailing  above, 
only  their  lower  edges  tinted  by  faintest  pink, 
and  when  the  clear  sky  underneath  changes  to 


luminous  pale  gold  lightly  washed  with  a  coppery 
bronze,  as  the  clouds  darken  and  spread,  till  up 
towards  the  zenith  their  drab  patches  relieve 
depths  of  fast-fading  rose,  then,  shades  of  great 
Rousseau,  you  are  here  !  There  are  times  when 


112  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

the  humor  of  the  sunset  is  all  soft  and  mellow 
and  full  of  sober  amiability,  when  the  sky  seems 
to  melt  away  in  a  golden  mist,  and  the  level 
rays  of  light  touching  the  western  slope  of  a 
field  are  like  a  benediction  on  the  happy  earth  ; 
the  commonest  things  bathed  in  this  sweet  flood 
are  transformed  to  objects  of  beauty.  It  was  so 
that  Claude  Lorrain  would  see  his  world.  Then 
comes  a  day  of  storm,  and  the  heavy  rain  clouds 
darken  all  the  landscape,  till  at  evening  the  west 
suddenly  runs  up  its  signal  of  clearing  weather, 
and  in  a  twinkling  the  sad  gray  curtains  are 
whisked  from  before  the  gates  of  the  Occident 
in  time  to  reveal  an  orange  and  green  chamber 
of  more  than  royal  magnificence  in  which  the 
sun  has  gone  to  bed.  The  other  night,  a  huge 
array  of  slate-gray  clouds  had  been  piled  up  over 
there  by  some  aerial  architect,  with  horizontal 
strata  projected  on  purpose  to  catch  reflections 
of  fiery  scarlet  in  long  bars  of  unutterable  bril 
liancy.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  bed  of  celestial  cin 
ders,  glowing  with  their  last  life,  the  debris  of 
the  day's  full  fire.  Many  a  sunset  has  flamed 
and  faded  over  my  horizon  that  words  are  but 


SUNSET  EFFECTS. 

poor  means  of  sketching ;  some  were  portents, 
and  some  were  prodigies,  and  others  still  were 
as  a  mother's  good-night  kiss.  They  are,  all  in 
all,  as  near  indescribable  as  anything  on  earth 
may  be.  We  have  our  little  stock  of  phrases, 
our  metaphors,  and  what  then  ?  Are  all  the 
gems  known  to  the  jeweller  equal  to  the  colors 


•i*.     ! 


in  the  sky  which  we  hope  to  praise  by  compar 
ing  with  them  ?  It  is  a  sheer  waste  of  powder 
to  fire  volleys  of  adjectives  which,  from  the  con- 


114  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

stant  abuse  of  them,  have  come  to  mean  any 
thing  or  nothing.  Is  it  not  rather  sacrilegious 
to  speak  of  the  finest  sights  in  life  in  terms 
which  the  school-girl  applies  to  her  caramels  ? 

Art  has  a  curious  progressive  effect  on  the 
serious  mind  :  at  the  outset  it  seems  to  respect 
nothing,  and  it  ends  by  becoming  a  religion. 
So  a  work  of  art  is  something  done  in  love  and 
faith  :  and  because  these  exalted  feelings  can 
not  be  well  counterfeited,  their  absence  being 
easily  detected,  the  world  refuses  to  be  moved 
by  a  picture  which  has  cost  its  maker  no  real 
emotion.  To  look  upon  an  actual  scene  and 
say,  That  is  like  a  painting  by  my  friend,  this  is 
indeed  a  genuine  tribute  to  genius ;  for  the  art 
of  which  Nature  strongly  reminds  us  must  be 
well  born  and  nobly  inspired. 


IN   THE   WOODS. 

FEW  men  really  love  solitude,  and  this  is  one 
of  the  reasons  that  it  is  pleasant  to  be  in 
the  woods,  where,  although  alone,  one  is  never 
solitary.  They  are  sham  hermits  who  take  up 
their  abode  in  cabins  in  the  forest ;  for  in  such  a 
home  there  must  be  plenty  of  company.  It  is  a 
brave  kingdom,  where  the  inhabitants  have  their 
music  for  nothing,  "  sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that 
give  delight  and  hurt  not."  The  free  spirit 
of  the  woods  seems  somehow  to  penetrate  the 
least  poetical  natures.  Men  go  down  in  Maine 

"5 


Il6  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

to  hunt  and  fish,  and  mayhap  bring  down  better 
game  than  they  seek.  The  tuneful  voice  of 
Nature  is  continually  audible  in  the  shadowy 
solitudes.  The  lonely  glen,  and  wild  rocky  dell, 
the  high  canopy  of  moving  boughs,  the  solemn 
fastnesses  where  the  light  of  day  is  tempered  to 
a  perpetual  dusk,  school  the  eyes,  to  quiet  con 
templation,  and  solace  the  restless  mind  with 
balmy  day-dreams.  Sky  and  distance  are  ban 
ished  from  the  scene,  and  all  is  either  foreground 
or  mystery. 

Mystery !  that  is  the  name  for  this  leafy  city, 
whose  tangled  avenues  begin  nowhere  and  lead 
to  the  unknown.  The  fancy  roves  in  a  laby 
rinth  of  bosky  byways,  now  charmed,  now  awed. 
There  is  no  Oriental  rug  to  equal  the  pine 
needles,  dead  twigs,  and  fallen  leaves  that  strew 
the  fragrant,  endless  alleys  of  the  forest ;  it  is  a 
carpet  elastic  under  the  tread,  grateful  to  the 
nostrils,  and  of  a  tone  and  pattern  that  never 
weary  the  sight,  —  brown  beneath,  and  diapered 
with  the  exquisitely  delicate  shapes  of  ferns 
and  mosses  in  many  shades  of  green,  with 
weeds  which  deserve  more  honorable  names. 


IN  THE   WOODS.  119 

The  gray  of  granite  boulders  makes  cool  spots 
in  this  harmonious  field,  flecked  by  moving 
points  of  sunlight,  and  variegated  by  a  thousand 
caprices  of  brier  and  vine,  bush  and  sapling. 
No  two  square  yards  are  like,  but  all  are  in  per 
fect  accord.  The  light  is  colored  a  golden 
green  by  the  multitude  of  reflections  from  the 
foliage ;  it  is  the  despair  of  literal  painters,  and 
no  picture  is  adequate  to  suggest  its  peculiar 
quality  except  in  a  remote  manner  when  the 
mid-summer  sun  hangs  high  and  vegetation  is 
at  its  fullest  life. 

Our  trees  are  being  felled  at  such  a  rate  that 
the  grand  old  woods  that  once  covered  a  large 
part  of  the  country  are  already,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  things  of  the  past,  and  in  time  we 
may  be  obliged  to  go  to  Europe  or  to  South 
America  to  see  a  forest  worthy  of  the  name. 
Such  a  wood  as  that  of  Fontainebleau,  easily 
accessible  from  Paris,  would  undoubtedly  "pay" 
in  the  neighborhood  of  large  towns  here,  but 
though  we  have  cut  down  scores  of  them,  it  is 
not  so  easy  to  make  them.  Shall  Americans  in 
the  future  have  to  go  to  the  suburbs  of  Paris 


120  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

and  London  when  they  wish  to  see  a  good  bit 
of  woods  ?  Let  Boston  at  least  earn  a  new 
title  to  distinction  (it  is  time)  by  guarding  from 
real-estate  vandalism  the  wild  tract  known  as 
the  Middlesex  Fells,  which,  improving  with  age 
like  wine,  if  preserved  in  all  its  integrity,  will 
be  the  finest  ornament  of  a  district  which  does 
not  lack  natural  charms,  and  which  can  be 
spoiled  only  by  the  vulgarity  and  greed  of  the 
citizens.  Indeed,  one  must  travel  far  now  to 
find  more  picturesque  horizons  than  those  of 
historic  Middlesex  County,  with  her  dense,  luxu 
riant  woods  and  her  rolling  purple  hills.  Wood 
man,  spare  that  tree  !  As  the  amiable  M.  Oudi- 
not  has  said,  "  Celui  qui  aime  vraiment  la  nature 
ne  pent  guere  etre  qu'un  honnete  homme "  ; 
and  surely  he  who  loves  trees  cannot  be  all 
wrong-hearted. 

It  is  no  easy  matter  nowadays  in  the  greater 
part  of  this  New  England  to  get  lost  in  the 
woods.  At  the  moment  the  explorer  is  con 
vinced  that  he  has  penetrated  to  the  holy  of 
holies,  and  contemplates  taking  formal  posses 
sion  of  the  heart  of  the  place,  a  stronger  light 


IN  THE   WOODS.  12 1 

breaks  upon  his  way,  and  a  few  steps  bring  him 
to  the  farther  edge  of  the  wood,  within  view  of 
a  barn  and  a  haystack.  A  few  repetitions  of 
this  experience  are  enough  to  extinguish  all 
sense  of  personal  heroism  in  the  adventurer. 
However,  the  Pemigewasset  forest  in  New 
Hampshire  may  be  considered  a  very  respect 
able  wilderness  for  these  times  ;  at  all  events 
when  a  party  of  us  tramped  through  it  there 
were  no  paths,  tracks,  nor  "blazes,"  for  some 
thirty  miles,  and  to  find  the  way  it  was  cus 
tomary  to  follow  the  sinuous  courses  of  the 
streams.  In  this  virgin  forest,  as  we  liked  to 
call  it,  everything  was  entirely  natural  and 
inviolate  ;  there  were  no  traces  of  human  beings 
except  two  deserted,  ill-smelling  wood-cutters' 
cabins  at  far  intervals.  The  general  aspect  of 
these  trackless  wilds  was  not  widely  different 
from  that  of  a  snug  little  wood  of  ten  acres,  in 
the  centre  of  which  one  may  momentarily  fancy 
the  nearest  house  a  thousand  miles  away ;  yet 
the  sense  of  hearing  testified  otherwise.  There 
were  no  sounds  save  those  that  might  be  heard 
here  by  the  savage  before  Columbus  broke  the 


122  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

egg,  —  the  birds'  careless  improvisations,  the 
jovial  confidences  of  the  brooks,  the  light  foot 
fall  of  some  invisible  animal,  the  soft  rustling 
of  the  foliage  far  overhead,  the  fall  of  a  dead 
limb ;  and,  at  dead  of  night,  when  we  tired  way 
farers  lay  outstretched  on  our  pine-bough  beds, 
the  sudden  and  startling  challenge  of  the  owl. 
There  seems  to  be  no  such  thing  as  absolute 
silence  in  this  world,  but  the  sounds  of  the 
wilderness  (like  its  sights  and  smells)  are  mostly 
sweet,  and  it  is  no  slight  pleasure  to  be  for 
a  while  beyond  hearing  of  the  locomotive's 
harsh  whoop,  the  din  of  mills  and  traffic,  and  all 
the  nerve-racking  noises  of  town  and  trade. 
Then  how  good  is  plainest  fare  eaten  by  the 
camp-fire,  how  sound  and  refreshing  the  sleep 
of  the  bivouac,  and  what  a  relish  for  life  and 
work  the  keen  morning  air  imparts !  The  cas 
cades  which  abound  in  the  Pemigewasset  forest 
are  of  surpassing  beauty,  and  all  along  the  East 
Branch  there  are  charming  bits  of  the  wildest 
character,  as  the  rapid  stream  winds  its  devious 
way  among  myriads  of  mossy,  spray-sprinkled 
boulders  and  stones  of  every  hue,  hemmed  in 


IN  THE   WOODS. 


123 


by  massive  walls  of  undergrowth  and  towering 
trees.       Emerging  from  the  forest,  the  pedes- 


trian's  arduous  enterprise  is  crowned  finally  by 
a  wonderful  spectacular  view  of  the  White 
Mountain  Notch  from  the  steep  slope  of  Mount 
Willey. 


124 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


In  every  wood  there  are  miniature  woods, 
and  so  on,  down  to  the  smallest  visible  growth 
of  starry  moss.  One  need  not  be  a  naturalist 
to  distinguish  a  huckleberry  bush 
from  an  elm  ;  but  in  the  rich  month 
of  August  the  display  of  wild  flow 
ers,  vines,  and  ferns  is  something 
to  make  one  long  for  more  knowl 
edge  of  these  gracious  things. 
Asters,  clematis,  sumac,  tansy, 
snapdragon,  golden-rod,  althea, 
marshmallow,  pride-of- 
the-meadow,  and  many 
like  them,  warm  the 
pathway's  side,  and 
deck  the  swamp  and 
woodland  with  more 
than  the  decorous 
beauty  of  cultivated 
flowers.  The  crushed 
leaves  of  sweet-fern, 
trodden  down  by  some  passer,  fill  the  air  with 
the  warm,  languid  odor  of  summer.  Along  the 
weedy  lane  the  deep,  honest,  bricky  red  of  the 


IN  THE   WOODS.  125 

sumac  glows  prodigally,  and  in  the  homely  gar 
den  of  the  farmer's  daughter  the  now  famous 
sunflower  lifts  its  lavish  disk  of  gold,  down 
there  by  the  long  grape-vine  arbor  of  rustic 
cedar,  a  tunnel  of  generous  verdure,  paved  with 
a  mosaic  of  wavering  light  and  shade,  such  a 
foyer  as  Paul  Baudry  could  not  match. 

The  most  solemn  wood  is  that  of  tall,  straight 
pines,  which  stand  in  nearly  regular  ranks, 
forming  stately  aisles,  and  suggesting  the  spon 
taneous  architecture  of  sylvan  cathedral  builders. 
In  Courbet's  great  picture  of  "The  Quarry" 
the  verdant  twilight  of  the  pine  forest  is  richly 
translated,  and  the  magnificent  coloring,  equal 
to  that  of  a  Veronese,  is  worthy  of  the  theme. 
Yet  a  Belgian  critic  wittily  wanted  to  know  in 
what  Parisian  studio  Courbet  had  found  such 
a  neat  grove.  It  is  well  enough  for  all  of  us 
to  take  some  things  for  granted,  among  which 
(the  Belgian  safely  might  have  assumed)  the 
French  iconoclast's  knowledge  of  his  native 
Vosges  woods  and  hills  was  not  open  to  ques 
tion  ;  and  it  must  be  mortifying  for  an  author 
ity  who  sets  the  petty  masters  of  Antwerp 


126  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

and  Brussels  above  Courbet,  to  think  that  "the 
laugh  is  on  himself,"  instead  of  on  the  outcast 
whose  arrogance  was  so  cruelly  humbled  in  his 
last  days. 

To  jump  from  the  Vosges  to  Vermont,  well- 
named  state,  I  think  that  the  complexion  and 
character  of  our  own  green  woods  have  never 
been  more  faithfully  reported  than  in  the  paint 
ings  of  Marcus  Waterman,  an  artist  of  singular 
merit  and  originality,  whose  power  of  acute 
observation  is  extraordinarily  developed,  and 
whose  execution  is  broad  without  wanting  in 
particularity. 

Among  the  most  eloquent  descriptions  of 
woods  in  our  language,  certain  lines  in  the 
"  Alastor"  of  Shelley  are  pre-eminently  inspired. 
There  are  no  more  apt  touches  in  all  the  litera 
ture  of  the  subject  than  such  as  occur  in  the 
passage  beginning  :  - 

"The  noonday  sun 

Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     .     .     ." 


IN   THE   WOODS.  127 

The  observation  of  Nature  disclosed  by  this 
extremely  beautiful  passage  is  as  intimate  and 
loving  as  ever  a  painter  employed,  and  is  enough 


* 


^ 


^  ,         ^/K^^f^r 


to  show  with  what  reason  this  poet  shares  with 
Wordsworth  the  regard  of  so  many  landscapists. 
The  little  forest  of  Mormal,  described  so 
prettily  by  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  in  his  "  In  - 
land  Voyage,"  was  perfumed  with  sweet-brier, 
and  he  thought  it  the  most  imposing  piece  in 


128  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

Nature's  repertory.  The  smell  of  trees  he  con 
siders  the  sweetest  and  most  fortifying  of  all 
smells.  Like  Heine,  and  like  Merlin,  he  would 
be  buried  under  the  oaks.  De  Musset  preferred 
to  lie  among  the  willow's  roots  ;  for  its  pallor 
was  dear  to  him,  and  he  fancied  that  its  shade 
would  rest  lightly  on  the  earth  above  him ; 
this  harmless  ambition  has  been  gratified. 


MOODS    OF   THE    SEA. 

THE  sea  is  spoken  of  as  if  it  were  a  free 
agent,  and  blamed  or  praised  accordingly. 
In  fact  it  is  the  slave  of  the  winds  and  the 
moon,  and  acts  only  in  obedience  to  their  power. 
It  is  sullen  only  when  the  clouds  are  heavy 
above  it,  and  cheerfully  reflects  the  gladness  of 
blue  skies.  Its  passion  is  borrowed  from  the 
madness  of  the  airs  that  blow  upon  it,  and  it  is 
in  no  degree  responsible.  For  poetry's  sake, 
however,  and  because  of  ancient  associations 
stronger  than  we  realize,  the  sea  will  not  only 

129 


130 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


be  personified  by  generations  yet  unborn,  but 
Neptune  will  still  be  scolded  for  the  mischief 
wrought  by  Boreas,  ^Eolus,  Luna,  and  all  the 
crew  of  wind-gods  that  roam  over  the  sounding 
main,  as  ready  for  wicked  work  now  as  they 
were  in  the  days  of  Ulysses. 


So  the  moods  of  the  sea  are  largely  due  to 
external  influences,  as  the  moods  of  men  are. 
It  is  simply  a  huge  instrument  of  destiny ; 
mighty  with  a  higher  might  than  its  own  ;  Om 
nipotence  uses  it  to  work  out  its  inscrutable 


MOODS  OF  THE   SEA.  131 

designs  on  the  individual  and  on  nations ;  the 
vast  theatre  of  countless  tragedies,  changeful 
yet  ever  essentially  the  same,  it  is  the  most 
beautiful  and  the  most  mysterious  element  in 
this  world  of  beauty  and  of  mystery.  When  a 
light  breeze  is  blowing  from  the  east  in  the 
early  morning,  and  a  white  haze  dulls  the  out 
lines  of  the  shore,  the  whole  surface  of  the  sea 
is  a  tremulous  array  of  dazzling  flashes,  quiver 
ing  with  points  of  molten  silver ;  each  ripple 
fires  its  little  sunbeam  of  intolerable  radiance  at 
the  sight ;  it  is  a  shining  world  without  shade. 
The  local  color  of  the  water  is  pale  blue, 
approaching  a  greenish  hue,  but  the  sun  makes 
the  whole  expanse  a  crystal  carnival  of  light. 
So  joyous  and  peaceful  is  this  holiday  aspect  of 
the  sea,  that,  seeing  it  thus  on  the  morning 
after  a  great  storm,  it  is  natural  to  accuse  it  of 
the  basest  hypocrisy  ;  for  has  it  not  within  the 
twenty-four  hours  swallowed  up  most  cruelly 
many  brave  ships  and  men  ?  and  how  can  it  put 
on  at  once  this  heavenly  smile  ?  is  it  not  a  mon 
strous  lie  to  say  all  is  well  ? 

A   northeaster  in  the  autumn  clothes  every- 


132 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


thing  in  dull  grays.  The  water  is  of  a  dirty, 
dull  light  brown ;  on  the  crests  of  the  waves 
where  they  break,  the  brown  becomes  a  dirty, 
dull  yellow,  then  dissolves  in  a  dirty,  dull  white 


foam.  The  sky  is  purple  at  the  east,  with 
vague  forms  of  cold,  smoky  gray  against  it. 
The  line  of  the  horizon  is  lost  in  mist.  Every 
hue  and  every  form  is  inexpressibly  dull.  In 
such  weather  it  is  easy  to  understand  why 
Henri  Regnault  swore  an  eternal  haine  au  gris. 


MOODS   OF  THE   SEA.  135 

Such  are  our  New  England  winter  storms  — 
gray,  gray,  gray.  One  almost  forgets  what  the 
blessed  sun  looks  like,  so  persistently  do  the 
leaden  clouds  hatefully  hang  over  the  frozen 
earth.  Haine  au  gris  ! 

In  a  warm  southerly  storm,  when  the  taste  of 
the  wind  is  soft  and  briny,  the  sea  is  a  dun 
color,  or  cream-brown  ;  the  white  horses  race 
merrily  as  far  out  as  the  sight  carries ;  fitful 
gleams  of  sunshine  illuminate  long  streaks 
of  tossing  greenish  water,  bounded  by  sober 
shadows  where  dense  rain  scuds  over  the  deep. 
A  sudden  burst  of  light  reveals  a  brig's  upper 
spars  above  the  corrugated  horizon  ;  then  all's 
closed  in  again,  the  mist  enwraps  the  foam- 
bordered  rocks,  the  rain  beats  spitefully  and 
stings  like  sleet,  the  wind  renews  its  uproar 
with  augmented  energy,  the  surf  grinds  and 
pulsates  in  hollow  rhythm  on  the  sands.  On 
such  a  day  as  this,  it  is  not  hard  to  sympathize 
with  Byron's  virile  apostrophe  to  the  ocean.  It 
is  exhilarating  to  inhale  deeply  the  breath  of  a 
summer  tempest ;  to  be  in  it  and  of  it ;  to  feel 
its  wetness  and  rude  violence ;  to  laugh  at  the 


136  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

gale's  fury.  Rough  and  boisterous,  not  tt>  be 
trifled  with,  the  sea  is  a  hearty,  wholesome  fel 
low,  whose  qualities  grow  on  acquaintance, 
and,  within  the  wide  bounds  of  a  servitude 
borne  so  easily  that  it  takes  on  the  appearance 
of  freedom,  it  is  a  good  friend  to  man. 

Statistics  might  be  made  to  prove  how  it 
clothes  and  feeds  many  men,  and  kills  but  a 
small  proportion  of  the  host  that  lives  on  it ; 
what  pestilences  would  sweep  away  multitudes 
if  it  were  not  for  the  sanitary  services  of  the 
tides  ;  how  many  lives  are  saved  yearly  by  the 
purity  and  tonic  properties  of  its  air.  Thus, 
though  the  individual  victim  cannot  console 
himself  by  any  such  philosophy,  the  romantic 
story  of  averages  pleads  for  the  ocean.  Some 
times,  it  must  be  confessed,  the  elements  seem 
to  be  moved  by  a  curious  perversity  that  makes 
of  them  the  most  implacable  foes  to  humanity. 
The  solitary,  hand-to-hand  struggle  of  a  man 
with  the  sea,  —  the  one  animated  by  love,  the 
other  by  blind  hate, — this  was  the  splendid 
theme  of  Victor  Hugo's  "Toilers  of  the  Sea," 
in  which  the  man,  after  unheard-of  efforts,  pre- 


MOODS   OF  THE   SEA.  137 

vailed,  only  to  be  conquered  at  last  by  a  maid's 
unkindness.  And  so  he  sought  that  deep  har 
bor  of  storm-beaten  souls  which  Ariel  sings  :  — 

' '  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies  ; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange." 

The  imagination  of  all  poets  has  been  affected 
by  that  great  unexplored  graveyard  of  nations, 
—  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  We  know  that  there 
are  high  mountains,  and  deep  valleys,  caves, 
rocks,  meadows,  and  impenetrable  forests,  where 
wondrous  marine  monsters  rove  down  there,  — 
a  whole  unknown  world,  forever  hid  from  mortal 
sight,  of  which  the  most  fantastic  dreams  can 
hardly  furnish  a  parallel.  The  future  explorer 
who  shall  carry  out  the  ingenious  suggestion  of 
Jules  Verne  will  see  through  the  windows  of 
his  submarine  vessel  such  beauties  and  such 
horrors  as  fancy  has  never  painted.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  sailors  are  superstitious.  Who  does 


138  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

not  believe  in  mermaids  ?  I  do  not  mean  the 
kind  for  many  years  exhibited  in  Boston  and 
Amsterdam  museums,  but  the  genuine  musical 
and  green-haired  sirens,  thefemmes  marines  of 
the  old  traditions.  One  of  these  was  caught  by 
a  Dutch  seaman,  who  married  her :  at  least 
Dumas  says  so  in  "  Les  Manages  du  Pere 
Olifus,"  and  a  terrible  dowry  of  trouble  she 
brought  to  the  old  reprobate. 

Few  subjects  present  so  many  difficulties  to 
the  painter  as  the  sea,  because  it  will  not  keep 
still.  This  country  has  given  birth  to  a  consid 
erable  number  of  marine  artists  who  have  dis 
tinguished  themselves  in  their  arduous  specialty. 
I  need  refer  only  to  Winslow  Homer ;  and  he  is 
to  be  set  above  many  that  are  honorable  in  that 
he  has  the  imagination  to  cope  with  immensity. 
By  some  artful  touch  he  suggests  the  unspeak 
able  extent  of  unseen  ocean  stretching  leagues 
on  leagues  away  beyond  the  horizon  ;  with  a  few 
brush  strokes  he  converts  Winsor  and  Newton 
inanimate  into  the  living  buoyancy,  the  perpet 
ual  motion,  and  the  baffling  light-glances  of  the 
waves  ;  and  finally  in  dramatic  contrast  with  all 


MOODS   OF  THE   SEA.  141 

this  brute  bulk  and  untamable  power  he  places 
the  physical  insignificance  of  man,  who,  by  his 
ingenuity  and  bravery,  is  enabled  to  profit  by 
the  forces  of  Nature.  Ships  and  sailors,  and  all 
things  that  have  to  do  with  the  blue  water,  he 
knows  well,  and  paints  with  hearty  sympathy  in 
a  manly  style.  There  is  a  fearful  loneliness  and 
desolation  in  his  picture  of  a  Gloucester  fisher 
man  lost  in  his  dory  at  nightfall  on  the  Grand 
Banks.  High  and  cold  the  black  waves  toss  all 
about  the  little  craft,  and  the  last  light  is  fading 
from  the  sky,  even  as  hope  fades  from  the  poor 
fellow's  heart.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  it  is  so  true. 
In  just  this  awful  way  hundreds  of  Gloucester 
men  go  to  their  death  every  year ;  and  still 
in  spite  of  danger  and  foreign  malice  the  hunt 
for  codfish  and  dollars  goes  on,  while  the  army 
of  widows  and  orphans  grows  apace. 

Those  who  remember  the  comical  controversy 
which  raged  over  the  "  Slave  Ship  "  of  Turner, 
when  it  was  exhibited  in  Boston,  will  perhaps 
appreciate  the  following  anecdote,  as  illustrating 
a  vulgar  form  of  lay  criticism  :  A  person  stand 
ing  in  front  of  an  excellent  marine  painting  in 


142  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

a  picture-gallery  turned  to  an  acquaintance,  and 
said,  dogmatically,  "Well,  I  have  never  seen 
sea  water  of  that  color,  and  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  one  ever  has."  The  reply,  which 
struck  me  as  very  sensible,  was  to  this  effect : 
"  I  have  seen  the  water  of  so  many  colors  under 
various  conditions  of  light,  that  I  should  have 
no  doubt  of  the  truth  of  the  picture,  even  if  I 
had  never  noticed  this  particular  effect.  I  see 

that   Mr. painted   it,  and   as   he   has  been 

studying  the  sea  for  the  last  forty  years,  I  pre 
sume  that  he  has  seen  a  good  many  things  that 
you  and  I  have  never  observed."  The  rebuke 
was  gently  expressed,  and  well  deserved.  It  is 
capable  of  wide  application. 

Speaking  of  Turner  reminds  me  of  the 
"  Fighting  Temeraire,"  and  of  how  naval  archi 
tecture  has  degenerated,  since  the  day  of  that 
vessel,  in  a  pictorial  sense.  The  old  wooden 
ships  were  royally  handsome  under  sail,  but  this 
iron  age  in  which  we  live  is  sadly  non-pictur 
esque,  and  what  could  be  uglier  than  a  Mon 
itor  unless  it  were  a  Merrimac?  There  is 
something  about  a  square-rigged  vessel  that  is 


MOODS   OF  THE   SEA.  143 

majestic  ;  even  a  little  brig  looks  more  imposing 
than  a  three-masted  schooner  of  thrice  her  ton 
nage.  Perhaps  this  is  prejudice  :  there  are  glo 
rious  memories  for  us  Americans  connected  with 
the  old  type  of  ships.  New  England  has  been 
a  nursery  for  hardy  mariners  in  the  past,  and  it 
may  be  hoped  that  the  race  of  the  Yankee  sail 
ors  has  not  wholly  died  out.  The  brave  old 
salts  who  made  our  flag  respected  wherever  it 
waved,  the  bold  skippers  of  New  Bedford,  Nan- 
tucket,  the  Vineyard,  Provincetown,  and  New 
London,  who  unfurled  the  stars  and  stripes  amid 
the  icy  solitudes  of  the  Antarctic  Circle  and  the 
surges  of  the  South  Pacific,  are  gone  ;  but  it  is 
not  certain  that  their  grandsons  will  rest  con 
tented  always  to  live  ashore. 

In  Clark  Russell's  best  stories  there  are 
some  well-studied  word-pictures  of  the  broad 
ocean,  though  he  piles  on  the  adjectives  almost 
too  profusely  when  he  comes  to  a  storm,  and 
one  does  lay  down  such  books  as  "The  Wreck 
of  the  Grosvenor "  with  the  impression  that 
the  author  has  had  more  than  his  fair  share 
of  rough  weather.  There  is  no  mistaking  his 


144 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


knowledge  of  his  subject,  nor  his  enthusiasm 
for  it;  but  a  sailor  should  have  no  aversion  to  a 
little  dulness,  and  there  is  nothing  more  fasci 
nating  than  certain  pages  in  "  Two  Years  before 
the  Mast"  and  "The  Red  Rover,"  where  a  per 


fect  trade-wind  monotony  reigns  supreme,  and 
the  reader  feels  that  he  may  drop  asleep  at  any 
moment,  hearing  the  swish  of  the  water  alongside 
and  feeling  the  soft  salt  wind  fanning  his  face. 
Happy  are  those  sailors  who  have  no  history. 


NOCTURNE. 

NIGHT  in  the  country,  — starless,  moonless, 
rayless,  unmitigated  night.  Darkness 
which  can  be  touched,  smelt,  breathed ;  a 
pelting  rain-storm  raging ;  a  blind-man's  buff 
bandage  bound  over  the  earth ;  blank,  bottom 
less  blackness  everywhere. 

In  the  very  dead  of  such  a  night  as  this, 
imagine  the  old-school  country  doctor  of  New 
England,  summoned  urgently  to  the  bedside  of 
a  distant  patient,  setting  forth  in  his  chaise. 
Accustomed  to  perambulate  the  lonely  roads  at 
all  hours,  in  all  seasons,  and  in  all  sorts  of 
weather,  he  is  soon  nodding  drowsily  over  the 
loose  reins,  the  intelligent  horse  being  better 
able  than  his  driver  to  find  the  way,  and  full  as 
anxious  to  get  to  his  destination.  The  veteran 
nag  has  something  of  the  faculty  of  a  nyctolo- 
pus;  he  holds  a  steady  jog-trot  through  the  end- 


146  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

less  shadows,  splashing  unconcernedly  through 
the  mud  and  the  pools,  head  down,  but  with 
never  a  stumble.  Over  the  hills  where  the 
night  wind  blows  keen  and  damp ;  through  the 
woods  where  the  carriage-hood  brushes  showers 
of  spray  from  overhanging  boughs  ;  thundering 
over  shaky,  unseen,  wooden  bridges  beneath 
which  black  streams  are  rolling  swiftly  ;  past 
the  village  tavern  from  which  the  hoarse  voices 
of  belated  revellers  come  vaguely  in  profane 
song ;  by  the  shore  whose  breakers  mingle 
their  voices  in  the  storm's  wild  chorus  ;  now 
with  creaks  and  groans  of  ancient  axles  the 
patient  steed's  freight  is  hauled  up  a  lengthy 
slope ;  a  dim  silhouette  of  barns  and  haystacks, 
woods  and  fields,  appears  against  the  murky 
sky  ;  a  tallow-dip  gleams  feebly  through  a  farm 
house  window;  "Ah,  doctor,  how  glad  I  am 
that  you  have  come  at  last !  " 

The  visit  concluded,  the  physician  starts  for 
home.  Midway  a  thick  forest  stands  on  one 
side  of  the  road,  and  on  the  other  side  meadows 
slope  easily  down  to  the  edge  of  a  swamp.  The 
rain  has  ceased,  and  at  this  point  begins  an 


NOCTURNE. 


147 


impromptu    exhi 
bition  of  fire 
works,  or  fireflies' 
festival.      Low 
and     high,     near 
and    far,     among 
the    trees     and 
down     over     the 
meadows,   in   the 
road    and    every 
where,  it  is  noth 
ing  but  a  bewil 
dering  succession 
of   quick   flashes,        j 
made    the    brighter 
by  the  dense  darkness.     A  wanton 
whirl  of  fiery  caprices  envelops  the  vehicle, 
weaves  a  weird  fabric  of  dizzy  insect  lightning, 
dances  a  furious  zigzag  ballet  of  living  sparks 
all  around.      No  feu  de  joie  in  imperial  capital, 
exalting  the  pomp  of  conquering  monarch,  could 
ever  eclipse  the  extraordinary  activity  and  bril 
liancy  of  this  display. 

The    majesty    of   the    night,    says    Balzac,   is 


\          \, 


148  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

truly  contagious ;  it  awes  and  it  inspires  ;  there 
is  an  indescribable  potency  in  the  thought, 
"everything  slumbers,  and  I  am  awake."  Sup 
pose  the  good  doctor's  homeward  road  now 
brings  him  by  the  sea,  as  the  clouds  are  break 
ing  away.  There  is  a  sudden  glow  beyond  the 
eastern  horizon,  warm  and  ruddy ;  it  grows 
deeper,  and  may  be  a  ship  on  fire.  Now,  where 
is  your  almanac-wisdom,  dull-eyed  doctor  ?  Do 
you  not  recognize  that  familiar  flushed  pate 
emerging  from  the  brine,  that  ghost  of  a  leer 
in  the  fat  countenance,  where  extinct  volcanoes 
and  dried-up  ocean-beds  write  their  seams  of 
dissipation  on  the  lunar  cheek  and  brow  ?  The 
chin  appears  at  length,  drippingly,  as  it  seems ; 
and  the  flush  fades  to  a  most  delectable  amber. 
In  a  moment  the  magic  path  of  winking  light 
grows  across  the  water  —  that  unstable  road  by 
which  our  reeling  fancy  alone  can  walk  to  a  dead 
world.  The  moon  rides  higher,  and  pales  as  it 
climbs ;  the  amber  tint  gives  way  to  silver ;  it 
shines  with  a  cool  and  chastened  light.  The 
solitary  spectator  watches  it  as  it  dodges  in  and 
out  among  the  clouds,  now  sailing  fast  before 


NOCTURNE.  149 

the  west  wind.  It  fringes  the  ragged  rack  with 
a  clear  pearly  radiance,  playing  a  stately  game 
of  phantom  hide-and-seek  with  the  scurrying 
vapors.  What  is  it  that  Shelley  makes  the 
cloud  say  ? 

"  That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden 

Whom  mortals  call  the  Moon 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor 
By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn." 

The  quality  of  moonlight  defies  all  analysis  ; 
it  is  cool,  but  not  hard  ;  white,  but  not  colorless; 
passionless,  but  a  great  breeder  of  poetry  and 
sentiment.  In  a  picture  of  a  farmyard  at  night 
which  Millet  drew,  and  which  is  an  epitome  of 
silence  made  visible,  the  moonlight  falls  like 
a  heavenly  caress  on  the  rustic  scene,  bathing 
it  in  a  soft  splendor  of  peace.  A  cat  is  seen 
crawling  up  a  ladder  which  stands  against  the 
open  door  of  the  hayloft,  and  the  sly,  noiseless 
movement  of  this  midnight  prowler  only  empha 
sizes  the  slumberous  quietude  that  broods  over 
the  farm.  The  mind's  ear  harks,  and  hears 
mayhap  a  distant  watch-dog  baying  the  moon. 
The  world's  asleep,  past  snoring. 


ISO 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


Down  on  the  dark  shore,  where  now  a  soft 
breeze  hints  at  the  sweet  languor  of  southern 
nights,  the  waves,  as  they  break  on  the  rocks, 


throw  up  a  spray  of  silvery  light,  dying  away 
only  to  be  incessantly  renewed.  The  sea  is 
alive  with  phosphorescence,  and  the  shining 
jelly  may  be  picked  up  in  the  hand  where  the 
surf  rolls  it  up  on  the  beach.  Afloat,  gently 


NOCTURNE.  I  5  I 

rocked  by  the  illuminated  swell,  one  might  feel 
as  if  suspended  in  space,  for  there  are  stars 
beneath  as  well  as  overhead.  The  oarsman 
dips  his  blades  into  molten  silver,  and  lifts  from 
the  water  at  each  recovery  a  dripping  marvel  of 
pale  evanescent  fire. 


!-. 

-   • 


It  is  commonly  said  that  an  astronomer  must 
be  a  deist  or  a  madman,  and  no  doubt  he  who 
spends  his  nights  in  the  observation  and  study 
of  other  worlds  should  have  a  healthy  and  rev 
erent  imagination.  How  much  there  is  to  know, 
and  how  little  the  wisest  know  !  In  the  pres 
ence  of  the  stars  science  is  very  humble.  Old 
as  the  universe  seems,  are  we  not  at  the  very 
beginning  of  things  ?  The  vast  unknown  looms 


152  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

in   the   night,    above,   beneath,  beyond,  within ; 
the  Sphinx's  ancient  riddle  is  still  unguessed ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  all  this  phantasmal  scene 
is  no  less  beautiful  than  amazing.     While  manly 
Science  halts,  groping  its  way  upon  the  thresh 
old   of    things,   the    heedless    child    Art    enters 
boldly    in,    with    its    happy    intuitions    enjoys 
the  visible  universe,  and  listens  in  raptures  to 
the  music  of  the  spheres.    Unconcerned  as  to  the 
inhabitants    of  Jupiter,    not    even    knowing   its 
name  nor  its  course  in  the  heavens,  it  sees  with 
unalloyed  pleasure  the  regal  planet's  lustre;  for 
appearances,   not   facts,  are  the  subject   of   its 
contemplation.     The  full  absurdity  of  Vedder's 
picture,    "The   Fates   gathering  in  the   Stars," 
would  not  be  likely  to  strike  any  one  so  forcibly 
as  an  astronomer,  who  is  in  the  habit  of  regard 
ing  these  little  twinklers  as  worlds  de  facto.  Let 
savans  smile  at  the  illogical  fancies  of  painters 
and  poets  ;  perhaps  these  latter  have  the  best  of 
it,  after  all.      Who  has  drunk  deep  enough  from 
the  Pierian  spring  to  be  beyond  the  danger-line  ? 
It  is  just  as  well  to  consider  the  stars  simply  as 
stars,  or  even,  if  you  please,  as  jewels  on  Night's 


NOCTURNE. 


153 


Ethiopian  forehead.  Meanwhile,  a  smattering 
of  astronomy  is  excellent,  and  goes  a  long  way, 
on  the  veranda,  of  a  balmy  August  evening. 
The  outlines  of  the  Virgin,  the  Serpent,  the 


^jSii*^ 
-  /t-'-^ 


Archer,  the  Swan,  the  Eagle,  the  Harp,  the 
Bear,  and  those  other  figures  suggested  to  the  an 
cients  by  the  groupings  of  the  stars,  from  which 
the  several  constellations  take  their  names,  are 
easily  learned,  though  rather  fantastical,  and 


154  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

there  is  no  small  accomplishment  which  yields 
better  dividends  of  simple  pleasure  than  the 
ability  to  recognize  Venus  and  Jupiter,  the  red 
Arcturus,  blue  Altair,  and  that  constant  mid 
summer  friend  Vega,  which  will,  one  night,  a 
trifle  of  twelve  thousand  years  hence,  become 
the  polar  star.  One  comes  to  have  preferences 
among  the  stars,  and  Vega,  which  has  hung 
nearly  overhead  through  so  many  pleasant  warm 
evenings,  is  one  of  my  favorites  up  there.  Orion 
and  the  Pleiades  are  forever  associated  with  the 
voluble  lover  of  Locksley  Hall,  who  gazed  on 
them  through  love-sick  eyes  from  his  ivied  case 
ment.  Venus  doubtless  presided  over  the  for 
tunes  of  Hardy's  smitten  astronomer  in  his 
picturesque  nocturnal  romance  of  "Two  on  a 
Tower."  In  the  long  run  —  and  theirs  is  surely 
a  long  run — the  far-sighted  stars  witness  a 
good  many  strange  doings  on  our  little  foot 
stool.  Above  the  big  New  England  towns,  for 
instance,  they  see  a  broad  pallid  glare  in  the 
atmosphere,  the  reflection  of  thousands  of  elec 
tric  lamps  ;  while  between  these  centres,  rushing 
headlong  through  the  darkness,  rumbling,  fiery- 


NOCTURNE.  155 

eyed,  snake-like  monsters  crawl  over  the  coun 
try  ;  up  and  down  the  bays  and  sounds  ply  giant 
night-birds,  the  regular  throbbing  of  whose 
watery  pinions  is  carried  afar  by  the  wind.  In 
the  city  interminable  lines  of  gas-lamps,  yellow 
and  flickering,  cast  their  unsteady  reflections  on 
the  black  pavements  ;  colored  lights  of  car  and 
shop  make  festive  bouquets  of  brilliancy ;  and 
when  passing  showers  have  wet  the  streets,  the 
black  cabs  shine  resplendent  in  their  moist 
varnish.  "  It  was  but  yesternight,"  says  Castor 
to  Pollux,  "that  the  sunless  side  of  yon  busy 
sphere  slept  while  we  watched  ;  now  is  it  be 
come  owlish,  and  insomnia  turns  it  inside  out. 
It  matters  little  ;  let  the  worldlings  fret ;  their 
speck  will  be  consumed  in  a  million  years  and 
blotted  out.  'Tis  well  :  I  hate  to  shine  on 
sordid  fools.  The  experiment  of  placing  men 
on  that  star  has  turned  out  ill." 

"  Wherefore  concluded  so  rashly,  neighbor  ? 
Perhaps  the  sun  fails  to  warm  and  cheer  the 
day-side  of  all  that  hapless  ball,  and  man  is 
driven  to  brighten  his  sleeping  time  by  facti 
tious  rays." 


156 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


"Aye,  but  I  hear  that  the  race  has  cut  down 
trees  to  build  ugly  houses  withal;  fouled  the 
rivers  ;  made  huge  towns  of  brick ;  painted  bad 
pictures  ;  set  up  kings ;  maintained  armies  and 
navies,  and  waged  bloody  wars  for  conquest ; 
and  finally  that  it  now  worships  the  base  metal 
called  gold  so  fervently  that,  the  day  not  being 
long  enough,  it  turns  night  into  day  by  fiendish 


NOCTURNE. 


157 


arts  to  pursue  its  cult.  Decidedly  the  experi 
ment  has  failed.  Look  now  at  Aldebaran:  no 
men  there !  the  trees  and  rivers  are  unspoiled, 
there  are  no  houses  nor  towns,  no  bad  pictures, 
armies,  navies,  kings,  nor  wars  ;  in  fact,  nothing 
but  universal  peace  and  sobriety,  since  man  has 
never  been  nor  ever  will  be  there." 


"  True,  most  sapient  Castor,  many  sad  deeds 
are  done  on  that  star ;  yet  I  have  been  told  a 
time  was  when  the  arts  were  living  forces  there, 
and  one  man  there  was  in  particular  who,  like 
a  lantern  in  a  shadowy  place,  made  their  rude, 


158  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

dull  ways  glorious.  It  may  be  that  many  before 
him  had  perceived  how  life  is  born  of  contrasts, 
so  that  darkness  gives  worth  to  light ;  but  the 
world  waited  for  this  man  to  reveal  in  its  com 
pleteness  the  mystic  poetry  of  the  dark.  He 
touched  with  no  uncertain  hand  a  minor  chord, 
till  then  mute,  which  vibrated  with  a  melan 
choly  melodiousness  ;  and  the  world  discovered 
through  Rembrandt's  art  that  night  no  less 
than  day  was  clothed  in  beauty ;  the  half-seen 
held  its  potent  suggestions  of  loveliness  ;  and 
rich  gems  of  the  imagination  could  be  dug  from 
the  dim  mines  of  evening.  It  was  this  sombre 
Dutch  recluse,  in  fine,  who  first  found  a  material 
rhyme  and  correspondence  for  the  twilight  mood 
of  the  soul." 


THE    BEAUTY    OF    COMMON    THINGS. 

TO  eyes  rightly  trained,  common  things  are 
as  beautiful  as  any  conceivable  grand, 
splendid,  extraordinary  objects  in  the  world ; 
but  because  the  faculty  of  observation  is  either 
wholly  or  almost  undeveloped  in  the  vast  ma 
jority  of  individuals,  this  truth  seems  incom 
prehensible  to  most  men,  and  must  probably 
always  remain  so.  The  reason  that  artists  are 
happy  beings,  in  spite  of  whatever  want  of  appre 
ciation  and  encouragement  may  be  their  lot,  is 
chiefly  this  :  that  they  draw  enjoyment  from  a 


160  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

source  inaccessible  to  the  mass  of  mankind,  but 
for  them  inexhaustible,  eternal,  without  price. 
The  extent  to  which  the  faculty  of  seeing  form 
and  color  in  Nature  may  be  cultivated,  appears 
as  boundless  as  the  relish  for  the  exercise  of  it ; 
so  that  a  lifetime  is  all  too  short  for  the  study. 
It  is  a  road  which  lengthens  out  before  us  as 
we  advance,  with  constant  variety  in  its  vistas, 
fresh  delights  each  hour,  and  new  worlds  to 
conquer  from  day  to  day.  The  ardent  spirit 
of  the  student  animates  the  artist  to  the  end  of 
his  career ;  he  is  always  learning ;  and  knowl 
edge,  which  is  power,  is  also  his  greatest  pleas 
ure.  This  ruling  passion  fills  his  cup  to  the 
brim.  Corot,  in  his  last  moments,  grasped  in 
fancy  a  brush,  and  cried  out,  "  How  beautiful ! " 
saying  he  had  never  seen  such  admirable  land 
scapes.1  I  have  a  notion  that  the  old  man  is 
still  painting  landscapes  somewhere.  The  ap 
preciation  of  Nature  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on, 
and  becomes  an  instinct  and  an  enduring  love. 

1  Dumesnil,  "  Souvenirs  intimes  de  Corot."  Troyon  and 
Michel,  in  their  final  delirium,  had  similar  visions  of  incom 
parably  fine  landscapes. 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   COMMON  THINGS.         l6l 

The  cockney  sees  nothing  to  look  at  in  the 
country,  and  by  the  same  law  the  animals  that 
live  in  Mammoth  Cave  have  no  eyesight.  To  a 
whole  and  healthy  temperament,  everything  in 
the  world  is  interesting,  and  there  is  nothing 
so  mean  but  it  has  some  qualities  worth  observ 
ing.  Art  is  intensely  democratic,  as  well  as 
immensely  aristocratic.  It  is  for  the  few,  the 
elect,  to  comprehend  in  its  fulness  ;  but  its  sym 
pathies  are  world-wide  and  all-embracing.  This 
need  be  no  paradox :  let  us  look  into  things 
as  well  as  on  their  surface.  Is  there  a  dividing 
line  between  beauty  and  ugliness  ?  Sometimes 
it  seems  doubtful.  Homely  things  are  unutter 
ably  fine  when  looked  at  through  sympathetic 
spectacles.  Sacred  associations  beautify  and 
enrich  the  wrinkled  features  of  age,  and  sanc 
tify  the  crumbling  walls  of  the  humble  cottage. 
Memory  tints  with  divine  hues  some  of  the 
most  forlorn  and  obscure  corners  of  the  earth. 
I  have  seen  a  painting  of  a  pig-pen  which  was 
truly  handsome,  and  it  did  not  need  to  lie  to  be 
so.  When  Ruskin  referred  contemptuously  to 
Murillo's  " Beggar  Boy"  in  the  Louvre,  as  an  evi- 


1 62  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

dence  of  the  painter's  love  of  dirt,  he  betrayed  a 
strain  of  English  philistinism  in  his  own  make-up 
which  he  has  been  ready  enough  to  condemn  in 


his  compatriots.  Troyon  made  known  his  wish 
to  make  a  sketch  of  a  certain  heifer  ;  and  when 
the  well-pleased  owner  washed  and  groomed  the 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   COMMON   THINGS.         163 

animal  for  the  occasion,  the  painter  was  so  dis 
gusted  that  he  refused  to  paint  her  picture  at 
all.  Priggishness  and  prudery  are  more  vulgar 
and  more  hateful,  in  the  light  of  art,  than  any 
other  forms  of  affectation.  All  artificiality  is  at 
war  with  Nature,  and  art  too.  The  secret  of 
beauty  is  fitness.  Whatever  is  in  the  scene 
should  belong  there.  There  is  nothing  super 
fluous  in  the  woods  and  fields  :  everything  has 
its  place  and  is  adapted  to  its  part. 

Though  the  beauty  of  common  things  is  no 
modern  discovery,  we  are  constantly  under  the 
necessity  of  justifying  to  ourselves  by  the  light 
of  to-day  our  re-discoveries  and  re-castings  of 
old  truths  ;  and  in  landscape-painting,  the  prac 
tice  of  this  age  has  departed  more  widely  from 
the  track  of  tradition  than  in  most  other  depart 
ments  of  the  art.  Landscape  in  the  days  of 
the  Carracci  was  mainly  employed  as  back 
ground  for  figures,  and  a  stretch  of  far  hills 
usually  sufficed,  details,  with  occasional  excep 
tions,  being  neither  desired  nor  desirable. 
When  figures  and  buildings  in  turn  became 
accessories  to  landscape  in  Claude's  time,  the 


164 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


study  of  trees 
and  other  ob 
jects  in  outdoor 
light  was  seri 
ously  begun,  as 
we  have  ample 
proof  in  the 
~7'-t.  "Liber  Verita- 

tis "  ;  but  this 
study  was  not  carried  to  its 
logical  conclusions  in  the  fin 
ished  work,  which  was  a  glow 
ing  synthesis,  or  abstract  vision,  in  which  the 
distance  drew  the  eye  towards  a  golden  dream 
land,  and  nothing  seemed  near  and  familiar.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  Dutchmen,  who  were  noth 
ing  if  not  close  to  the  ground,  so  to  say,  painted 
the  brown  dirt,  the  gray  tree-trunks  and  rocks, 
the  blue  and  white  skies  of  their  country,  with 
such  loyalty,  sturdy  unadorned  truth,  and  sound 
ness  of  workmanship,  that  the  most  admirable 
externals  of  modern  landscape-painting  may  be 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   COMMON   THINGS.         165 

said  to  be  their  inventions,  which,  in  common 
with  many  valuable  inventions,  are  so  simple 
that  it  seems  surprising  that  no  one  had  thought 
of  them  before.  Constable  was  not  slow  to 
catch  his  cue,  and  to  adapt  the  excellent  foreign 
formulae  to  English  conditions ;  and  all  the 
France  of  1830,  thrilling  with  a  new  impulse, 
turned  promptly  to  the  ways  of  Nature,  and 
inaugurated  such  a  prodigious  revival  of  land 
scape  art  that  the  receding  waves  of  its  influ 
ence  have  reached  even  these  distant  shores. 
The  art  has  grown  nearer  to  Nature  and  less 
conventional.  Among  the  most  remarkable 
changes  in  the  practice  of  it  is  that  from  the 
representation  of  the  general  to  the  particular, 
from  the  scenic  and  the  panoramic  to  the 
intimate  and  actual.  It  is  less  picturesque  and 
more  studied.  There  is  less  interest  in  the 
distance  and  more  in  the  foreground.  Men 
were  wont  to  run  off  to  the  Alps,  the  Andes, 
Niagara,  for  stupendous  views  ;  now  they  paint 
their  own  village  dooryards.  I  confess  to  enjoy 
ing  both  classes  of  subjects,  but  with  a  posi 
tive  preference  for  the  modest  dooryard ;  for 


1 66 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


there  can  be  no  doubt  that  is  difficult  enough 
for  most  of  our  talents,  and  that  artists  nowa 
days  study  very  hard. 


If  New  England  rural  life  is  in  any  manner 
barren,   it   is  because  the  people    make  it  so  ; 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   COMMON  THINGS.         l6/ 

but  let  us  not  be  too  ready  to  accept  the  popu 
lar  literary  view  of  the  matter.  The  Yankee 
character,  Lowell  says,  has  wanted  neither  open 
maligners,  nor  even  more  dangerous  enemies 
in  the  persons  of  those  unskilful  painters  who 
have  given  to  it  that  hardness,  angularity, 
and  want  of  proper  perspective,  which  in  truth 
belonged,  not  to  their  subject,  but  to  their  own 
niggard  and  unskilful  pencil.  The  same  may 
be  said  of  the  outside  aspects  of  the  country 
in  which  Mr.  Biglow  lives.  It  is  good  to  guard 
against  falling  into  the  heresy  that  the  familiar 
scenes  are  ugly  because  they  are  familiar. 
Insist  on  it  that  beauty  is  everywhere  ;  for  so 
it  is ;  aye,  even  the  toad,  ugly  and  venomous, 
"wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head."  Not 
only  the  hills  and  mountains,  plains  and  valleys, 
woods  and  groves,  brooks  and  rivers,  bays  and 
cliffs,  flowers  and  weeds,  ponds  and  lakes,  greens 
and  gardens,  highways  and  byways,  bushes  and 
vines,  cascades  and  pools,  and  all  the  natural 
objects  in  New  England,  but  also  the  houses, 
barns,  sheds,  fences,  bridges,  mills,  railroads, 
steamboats,  wharves,  taverns,  stores,  meeting- 


1 68 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


houses,  burial-grounds,  wagons,  ploughs,  barn 
yards,  beehives,  pig-pens,  hen-coops  ;  in  a  word, 
all  that  man  has  added  to  the  scene  should 
deserve  the  study  of  the  realist  who  looks  with 
his  own  eyes,  regardless  of  what  conventional 
ism  calls  prosaic,  vulgar,  and  commonplace. 


i »i"    iiilr        H 
:Tk;   If'     •':  * 
^iiM  |l    /  C 


These  things  are  of  the  soil,  and  distinguish 
our  landscape  from  that  of  France  or  England : 
thus  if  a  man  with  the  lofty  soul,  loyal  nature, 
and  tender  sympathy  of  a  Jean  Francois  Millet 
should  one  day  paint  rustic  New  England  some 
what  with  the  spirit  in  which  he  painted  rustic 


THE   BEAUTY   OF   COMMON   THINGS.          169 

France,  I  for  one  would  very  much  like  to  see 
the  results,  and  would  not  be  astonished  if  he 
touched  a  very  soft  place  in  the  American  heart. 
"We  are  immersed  in  beauty,  but  our  eyes 
have  no  clear  vision,"  said  the  Concord  seer. 
The  man  who  makes  us  see  it  where  we  saw 
none  before,  is  our  benefactor. 


THE   FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LAND- 
SCAPE  ART. 

IN  his  noble  essay  on  Art,  Emerson  says  that 
no  man  can  quite  emancipate  himself  from 
his  age  and  country  :  "  It  is  in  vain  that  we  look 
for  genius  to  reiterate  its  miracles  in  the  old 
arts  ;  it  is  its  instinct  to  find  beauty  and  holi 
ness  in  new  and  necessary  facts,  in  the  field 
and  roadside,  in  the  shop  and  mill."  It  has 
occurred  to  some  of  the  most  completely  alien 
ated  sons  of  America  that  "it's  a  wretched 
business,  this  virtual  quarrel  of  ours  with  our 
own  country,  this  everlasting  impatience  to  get 
out  of  it."1  And  as  Rowland  "looked  along 
the  arch  of  silvered  shadow  and  out  into  the 
lucid  air  of  the  American  night  ...  he  felt 
like  declaring  that  here  was  beauty  too  —  beauty 
sufficient  for  an  artist  not  to  starve  upon  it." 

1  "  Roderick  Hudson,"  by  Henry  James. 
170 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     171 

This  has  a  charming  touch  of  condescension  in 
it,  of  that  condescension  which  formed  the  text 
for  one  of  the  finest  essays  in  the  language, 
prompted  by  righteous  indignation,  and  having 
in  it  the  ring  of  manly  independence  and  hearty 


patriotism.  Then  here  is  another  quotation 
to  illustrate  my  theme :  it  is  from  Edward 
Strahan's  whimsical  account  of  his  wanderings 
abroad,  "The  New  Hyperion,"  in  which  he 
remarks  that  there  are  two  things  the  Amer 
ican-born,  however  long  a  resident  abroad, 
never  forgives  the  lack  of  in  Europe,  —  the 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

perpetual  street-mending  of  an  American  town, 
and  the  wooden  bridges.  "  Far  away,"  he 
writes,  "in  my  native  meadows  gleams  the 
silver  Charles  :  the  tramp  of  horses'  hoofs  comes 
to  my  ears  from  the  timbers  of  the  bridge. 
Here,  with  a  pelt  and  a  scramble,  your  bridge 
is  crossed  ;  nothing  addresses  the  heart  from 
its  stony  causeway.  But  the  low,  arched  tubes 
of  wood  that  span  the  streams  of  my  native 
land  are  so  many  bass-viols,  sending  out  mellow 
thunders  with  every  passing  wagon,  to  blend 
with  the  rustling  stream  and  the  sighing  woods. 
Shall  I  never  hear  them  again  ? "  This  strikes 
me  as  a  very  pretty  touch  of  sentiment,  but  it 
is  quoted  mainly  to  prove  how  true  Emerson's 
words  are,  that  no  man  can  quite  emancipate 
himself  from  his  country. 

In  the  incomparable  month  of  October,  the 
golden  month,  when  the  morning  air  tastes 
pure  and  sweet,  and  the  trees  have  donned 
their  splendid  fall  attire ;  when  a  thin  blue  haze 
veils  the  far  brown  hills  and  the  russet  groves, 
and  the  roads  are  carpeted  with  a  rich  occidental 
rug  of  dead  leaves  which  rustles  crisply  under 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     173 


foot ;  when  the 
days  growing 
shorter  make 
themselves 
most  regret 
ted  ;  and  the 
chill  which  de 
scends  with 
the  coming  of 
dusk  hints  of 
frosts;  when 
the  odor  of 
brush-fires  fills 
the  sharp  air 
with  its  sug 
gestion  of  No- 
v  e  m  b  e  r  '  s 
harsher  grip; 
and  small  boys 
make  the 

woods  resound  with  the  eager  outcries  of  the 
chestnut-hunter,  —  in  these  October  days  there 
is  no  country  like  this  New  England  of  ours. 
Words  are  but  poor  things  to  describe  what  any 


fc^'4i'pw.a* 

u&¥^'-^ 


174 


ARCADIAN    DAYS. 


one  may  see  of  its  store  of  beauty.  There 
are  delightful  quiet  villages  perched  on  airy 
hilltops,  overlooking  panoramas  of  vast  com 
pass,  bounded  by  range  upon  range  of  moun 
tains  so  distant  that  their  undulating  outlines 


of  pale  blue  almost  melt  into  the  sky ;  here 
are  the  quaint  homes  of  a  frugal,  contented, 
simple  people,  who  have  no  histories,  and  so 
must  be  happy ;  there  are  ocean-like  stretches 
of  forest,  solitudes  of  a  well-nigh  primeval 
silence,  broken  by  singing  streams,  great  sheets 
of  water  whose  names  recall  the  aborigines ; 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     175 

farmhouses  which  look  thoroughly  like  homes, 
as  permanent  as  the  hills  on  which  they  stand, 
and  as  congenial  with  their  surroundings  as 
the  trees  and  rocks :  not  like  intruders  and 
impertinences,  they  form  parts  of  the  land 
scape,  and  are  more  than  mere  irrelevancies 
and  warts  upon  it.  For  as  there  is  no  non 
sense  about  Nature,  a  sensible  building,  how 
ever  plain,  always  harmonizes  with  it.  Does 
not  good  sense  form  the  durable  base  of 
all  good  art?  This  is  the  explanation  of  the 
fact  that  wherever  in  New  England  enlighten 
ment  builds  its  home,  there  is  now  a  return  to 
solidity  of  construction,  simplicity  of  form,  and 
the  wise  adaptation  of  means  to  end.  Thus, 
from  the  aesthetic  point  of  view,  New  England 
is  growing  more  and  more  attractive  every  year. 
As  the  taste  for  country  life  becomes  stronger 
among  refined  people,  this  improvement  will 
be  more  marked.  There  is  a  fine  significance 
in  the  good  old  adage  that  God  made  the 
country,  and  man  made  the  town. 

The   early  stages  of   aesthetic  education  are 
naturally  attended  by  some  painful  barbarities, 


1 76  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

but  we  cannot  afford  to  despise  any  steps,  how 
ever  tottering,  in  that  direction.     The  feminine 
instinct  for  decoration  is  a  force  which  must  be 
counted  upon  in  this  struggle.     If  the  father  is 
proud  of  his  daughter's  skill  in  the  so-called  or 
namentation  of  screens  and  placques,  it  is  quite 
possible  that  his  grandchildren  may  start  in  life 
with  a  snug  capital  of  good  taste.     After  another 
generation   or  two,  the  arts   of  design   will  be 
regarded  as  something  more  than  child's  play, 
and  will  stand  at  least  on  a  par  with  banking, 
railroading,  wool,  and  leather.     There  is  a  vast 
deal  of  good  sense  among  the  "common  people," 
as  the  politicians  call  them,  and,  now  that  we 
are    beginning   to  get   over  our   hurry,   and  to 
realize  that  time  and  art  are  both  long,  and  con 
sequently    that  anything   worth  doing  at  all  is 
worth    doing   well,   the   inquiry   is   often   made, 
What   is   the    quarrel    between   the   artists   and 
the  public?    which  party  is  in  the   right?    and 
why    don't   Americans   back    up   their  artists? 
These  are  interesting  questions,  which  are  not 
easily    answered    in    a    satisfactory   way,   but  I 
shall  try  to  suggest  one  of  the  chief  causes  of 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     177 

the  trouble  and  the  means  by  which  it  may  be 
overcome. 

The  main  quarrel  between  the  people  at  large 
and  the  artists  is  that  the  artists  are  at  heart 
Europeans.  Is  there  not  ground  for  this  belief? 
To  ninety-nine  of  every  hundred  Americans  it 
means  more  than  a  mere  lack  of  patriotism  too  : 
it  means  something  like  dilettanteism  ;  and  when 
you  look  at  certain  works  of  art  so-called,  this 
suspicion  seems  only  too  well  founded.  This 
being  still  a  tremendously  busy  country,  and 
very  much  in  earnest,  anything  of  that  sort  is 
especially  detestable.  I  shall  be  told  that  there 
is  narrow-mindedness  and  prejudice  back  of  this 
feeling,  and  that  may  be  very  true.  Patriotism 
is  a  narrow-minded  virtue,  but  who  would  be  the 
man  without  a  country  ? 

If  there  be  one  thing  absolutely  certain  about 
the  future  of  our  art,  it  is  this  :  that  it  must  be 
more  and  more  American.  It  can  never  amount 
to  much  without  sending  its  roots  deeper  and 
deeper  down  into  our  own  native  soil.  The 
familiar  talk  about  the  European  art  atmosphere 
is  becoming  tiresome  cant.  The  time  is  come 


1/8  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

to  forswear  Rome,  Paris,  and  London,  and  give 
our  energies  to  our  country.  This  is  more  than 
mere  sentimentality ;  it  is  policy,  it  is  reason, 
it  is  logic.  Athens  and  Tokio  made  their  at 
mosphere  by  staying  at  home.  Here,  at  home, 


where  we  were  born,  we  are  to  fight  out  our  bat 
tles,  nowhere  else  ;  and  if  ever  we  are  to  have  a 
national  art,  this  is  the  ground  from  which  it 
must  grow.  Paris  and  Munich  and  Antwerp 
have  done  about  all  they  can  for  us.  The  babe 
must  be  weaned,  and  learn  to  trust  his  own  legs 
too.  America  is  the  place  for  Americans,  and 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     179 

being  an  artist  does  not  make  one  an  exception 
to  this  rule. 

To  paint  our  country  well,  we  must  first  love 
it  well ;  to  love  it  we  have  but  to  know  it,  and  to 
know  it  we  must  live  in  it.  With  new  matter 
must  come  a  new  manner.  As  the  treatment 
should  be  adapted  to  the  distinctive  peculiarities 
of  the  theme,  not  only  our  American  subjects, 
but  the  style  of  description  also,  must  be  our 
own.  A  man  cannot  be  quite  ingenuous  in  his 
work  when  he  is  constantly  looking  over  his 
shoulder  to  see  how  others  do  theirs.  As  for 
the  approval  of  foreigners,  the  surest  way  to 
secure  the  respect  of  the  world  is  to  respect  our 
selves. 

Let  the  American  artist  go  forth  alone,  in  the 
fields,  in  the  woods,  on  the  rivers,  and  forget  that 
any  man  has  lived,  looked,  loved,  and  painted 
before  him.  Let  him  abjure  all  the  inflexible 
recipes  of  the  academy,  unlearn  all  uncongenial 
imported  rules,  throw  away  his  useless  baggage 
of  preconceptions ;  let  him  strive  not  to  con 
sider  so  much  how  his  picture  will  look  as  how 
the  subject  does  look;  let  him  look  longer  and 


180  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

paint  less;  —  is  not  this  a  serious  business? 
The  way  to  create  a  personal  style  is  not  to 
think  of  the  style  so  much  as  the  matter. 
Take  a  good  shot  at  the  truth,  and  lo  !  you 
have  brought  down  beauty. 


Let  the  heart  yearn  for  the  end,  and  the 
head  will  find  the  means.  Let  the  passion  to 
publish  deeply  felt  truths  move  the  intellect, 
and  inspire  the  obedient  hand.  What  is  needed 
is  the  uncounterfeitable  candor,  the  touching 
ingenuousness,  the  holy  and  great-hearted  sim 
plicity  of  the  Raphaels  and  Angelicos  of  old  — 


FUTURE  OF  AMERICAN  LANDSCAPE  ART.     l8l 

not  borrowed  from  them,  but  born  anew,  here 
and  now,  out  of  totally  different  conditions  ;  and 
if  it  be  not  too  chimerical,  might  not  an  Ameri- 


can  sky  and  an  American  hillside,  painted  with 
the  love  and  piety  that  they  should  evoke,  give 
a  sensation  as  fine  and  produce  an  impression 
as  durable  as  was  ever  derived  from  classic  can 
vas  inspired  by  fifteenth  century  faith  ? 


1 82  ARCADIAN    DAYS. 

Art  has  no  country,  it  has  been  said,  and  truly 
its  essence  is  universal  ;  but  so  long  as  men 
have  homes  and  associations  which  are  more  or 
less  precious  to  them,  why  not  paint  the  sub 
jects  they  know  and  love  ?  Destiny  casts  each 
man's  lot  in  a  certain  place,  for  some  purpose ; 
well  for  him  if  he  can  say,  This  is  the  best  place 
for  me  to  live  and  die  ;  for  saying  so,  he  creates 
his  own  paradise. 

It  is  impossible  for  a  wanderer  to  be  original ; 
when  he  is  in  Rome,  he  must  do  as  the  Romans. 
Our  chameleon-like  adaptability  makes  us  pecu 
liarly  susceptible  to  foreign  influences,  for  we 
have  little  or  none  of  the  lofty  independence  of 
our  British  forefathers.  It  must  be  allowed  that 
we  are  clever  at  imitation,  but  it  is  a  pitiable 
distinction.  How  would  it  do  to  try  staying  at 
home  awhile  ? 


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